


Looming Gaia: Sugar and Shine

by TheGreys (alienjpeg)



Series: Looming Gaia [15]
Category: Looming Gaia
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Centaurs, Childbirth, Disability, Disabled Character, Drama, Explicit Language, F/M, Family, Fantasy, Fauns & Satyrs, Magic, Parenthood, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 01:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17840111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienjpeg/pseuds/TheGreys
Summary: Ginger thought she was too old to bear children, but her swelling belly tells no lies. Itchy realizes his mischief won’t cut it anymore and must find a better way to provide for his growing family.





	1. Blackout

**Author's Note:**

> This story is technically part of the Freelance Good Guys series, but reading those stories isn't necessary to understand this one. This is a direct sequel to "Dirty Animal" though, so it's recommended you at least read that first.
> 
> For concept art, lore, discussions, and more about the World of Looming Gaia Project, check out the blog: https://loominggaia.tumblr.com/post/175087795478/looming-gaia-masterpost

### [CHAPTER 1: BLACKOUT]

 

     _EARLY AUTUMN, 6005_

 

     Autumn was fast approaching in Drifter’s Hollow. A chilly wind rustled the leaves above, brought them to the forest floor where they lie browned and shriveled.

 

     Itchy found himself browned and shriveled as well, sprawled out in a mud puddle just outside his house. Around him was a sea of dead leaves, rotting among the pine needles, the bugs and the dewy soil.

 

     The satyr’s eyes cracked open one at a time, wincing in the harsh daylight. His head was pounding. His stomach rolled.

 

     What happened last night?

 

     Itchy was afraid to find out as he rose to his shaky hooves. He slipped once, twice, then finally stumbled his way towards his front door. He was coated in mud and pine needles from his hairy front to his aching back, from his horned head to his cloven toes.

 

     His leather satchel was still strapped to his torso. He slipped his hand inside and found it completely empty. Was he robbed or did he spend the gold himself? There was only one way to find out.

 

     He knocked on the door and called, “Ginger!” Birdsong twittered peacefully around him. The satyr snorted and spit a mouthful of foul-tasting mucus in the dirt, once again banging his fist on the door. “Giiiingerrrr!” he called louder. “I’m locked out, lassie!”

 

     He tried the doorknob again. Still locked. When he looked in the front window, a little freckled face peeked back at him through the curtains. Itchy tapped on the glass, then jerked his thumb towards the door.

 

     “Tomato, open the door!” he called. The little satyr hesitated as if in thought. Then he shook his head and disappeared behind the curtain.

 

     Itchy snorted with anger, hollered, “Tommy! You little shit, open the door right now!” He rushed back to the wooden porch and began yanking at the knob again. He could hear Tomato’s muffled snickering just behind. “Tomato!” he growled. The boy’s snickers exploded into squeaky laughter.

 

     “That’s it! You’re in for it, punk!” crowed Itchy, furiously ripping the leather bands from his braid. He shook his ratty, dark hair loose and metal pins clattered all over the porch. Swiping one, he kneeled and jammed it in the lock.

 

     “Lucky I don’t bust a window and come in swingin’ like a barbarian, ya little monster…Teach you to disrespect me…Unbelievable…” he muttered as he twisted the pin in trembling hands.

 

     He pressed his furry ear to the lock, listened closely for the click of the tumblers. Then he flinched, bending the pin in half when a voice cried, “Itchy! What on Gaia do you think you’re doing?”

 

     Quickly whirling around, the satyr saw Ginger fast approaching. She held a cloth sack of groceries in her hands and a sour look on her freckled face. Itchy discreetly flicked the bent pin into the bushes. He offered a crooked grin and greeted, “Ginger, hey! Perfect timing!”

 

     He gestured to the door and added, “The boy won’t open the door for me. Thinks he’s funny or something, the brat!”

Ginger stepped up to the porch and said flatly, “I _told_ him not to.”

 

     Itchy’s ears dropped with his expression. The satyress knocked softly on the door and called, “Tomato, dear! Mommy’s back!”

 

     Only then did the door finally open. Tomato stood on the other side, smiling brightly. “Did you get candy?” he asked, bouncing up and down.

“No more candy this week,” Ginger replied. “Dr. Che says it puts holes in your teeth.”

 

     Tomato let out a dramatic groan, trudging off as his mother passed through the door. When Itchy tried to follow, she turned around and shoved him back over the threshold.

 

     “Absolutely not,” she told him. “Not until you wash all that dirt off and apologize for what you’ve done!”

 

     Itchy felt his heart sink into the pit of his rolling stomach. So he’d spent the gold himself. He tried to swallow through his closing throat and croaked, “What did I do this time?”

 

     Setting her bag aside, Ginger planted her hands on her hips and replied sharply, “The usual, Itchy. You came home blackout drunk, ranting and cursing about someone named ‘Bamtam’. Then you ate all the food in the house and threw up _everywhere_. You broke three dishes, wet on the rug, and—”

 

     She glanced back at Tomato, playing with his toys behind her. Then she leaned in and whispered, “—and then you did something _very_ inappropriate with a zucchini. You were behaving like an animal, so I threw you outside where you belonged!”

 

     Itchy cringed. He swiped at his neck, hunching his shoulders and wishing very much that he could sink back into the dirt. “Oh,” he muttered. “Yikes. That’s…pretty bad.”

Ginger crossed her arms. “Yes, it is. What do you have to say for yourself?”

 

     “Well…I’m sorry, for one thing,” he began slowly, gaze heavy and lost, “I’m really sorry, Ginger. I never meant to get so drunk! I-I don’t know why this keeps happening! I say to myself out loud, I say, ‘Listen here, moron. We’re only having one drink this time. _One_!’”

 

     He shrugged, looking sheepish as he finished, “But somehow it turns into two, and then three, and then…” He sighed, shook his head. “And then before I know it, I’m a big jackass. But I wanna change! I wanna be a better man! I do, I’m tellin’ you! Can you find it in your sweet little heart to give me another chance?”

 

     The satyr offered a toothy smile, brow sagged above. Ginger stared at him for a long moment. Then she let out a sigh, picked a leaf out of his hair as she replied, “Like a fool, you know I will. But I’m still angry with you, Itchy. So if you’re serious about being a better man, then go out and prove it!”

 

     She pointed down the western trail and continued, “I want you to leave, and don’t you come back until you’re fresh as a daisy, sober as a monk, and ready to bring something to the table. I did not fall in love with this drunken, dirty animal!”

 

     Ginger’s expression softened as she caressed his jaw, picked a twig from his course beard. “I miss that noble person who rescued me from slavers. Who tried to carry me all the way to Woodborne, who stayed to take care of me and my son...”

 

     Her gaze met his, spring-green to steel-gray. “Don’t come back without the man I fell in love with.”

 

*

 

     Getting clean was difficult, in more than one sense.

 

     Itchy made his way to his little bootlegging operation, hidden in the woods not far from Ginger’s house. There sat his moonshine stills, his pornography, and any little items he’d pilfered over the years—all stashed in the hollow of a giant, rotting log.

 

     This operation sat close to the river. He heard the water babbling just behind the bushes and shuddered. Bathing alone was still a nightmare, even after all these years. Only when Ginger dragged out the washtub and joined him did he feel even remotely okay about it.

 

     But that wasn’t an option now. He made a mess, and now he was forced to roll in it as he kneeled by the riverside. His reflection stared back at him in the water, rippling and fearful. He watched his body quiver, and not from the brisk autumn air, for he felt sweat beading upon his brow.

 

     With a growl, Itchy slapped at his reflection and scrambled back to the log. Maybe a bath could wait. There was still plenty left to do to atone for his behavior. He checked his still and began bottling the finished moonshine into glass gallon-jugs. He filled four in total, which he corked and hefted into a creaky wooden cart nearby.

 

     He was carrying the last jug to the cart, nearly dropped it as a voice startled him. “Hard at work for once, are you?” teased Flora. Itchy turned, saw her leaning against a tree trunk. She wore nothing but a smile, all the white daisies lying shriveled and dead in her hair.

 

     “Why do you always show up when I’m at my worst?” Itchy groaned. He placed the jug in the cart and insulated it with leaves.

Flora approached him and said, “I won’t be around for long. I actually just came to say goodbye before I lay down for my winter sleep, so be sure to harvest your crops and preserve what you can. I’ll be back in spring, as early as the frost will let me.”

 

     Itchy quirked an eyebrow. “You’re going already? The leaves just barely turned!”

“It’s going to be a harsh autumn.” Flora shrugged. “That’s what an aurae told me. I can already feel its chill creeping in. The isanae must be antsy this year…” She glanced up at the white sky through the canopy.

 

     “Anyway,” she went on, “I should really go. The soil will freeze too hard to dig if I wait any longer. Take care of that lovely little family of yours until I get back, will you?”

 

     Picking up the handles of his cart, Itchy mumbled, “If it kills me, lassie. If it kills me.” Then he set off down the narrow trail, wheels creaking with every turn.

 

*

 

     It was just starting to get dark by the time Itchy arrived at the Freelance Good Guys’ compound. He wheeled his cart full of moonshine through the front gate, passed Lukas’ treehouse, and into the plaza.

 

     A warm light was glowing in the windows of the dining hall. The mercenaries should just be sitting down to dinner at this hour.

 

     Itchy opened the heavy door and arduously pulled the cart through. Sure enough, the long table was busy with hungry mercenaries, feasting, drinking, and loudly exchanging stories. The fireplace crackled at the back of the spacious room, air pungent with woodsmoke and baked bread.

 

     Itchy’s stomach growled. He’d eaten nothing but a handful of seeds and berries all day, but he had to stay focused. His relationship with Ginger depended on it.

 

     He saw Evan seated at one end of the table, laughing with Lukas to his left. When the door closed behind him, Evan turned Itchy’s way and his smile quickly hardened to a scowl.

 

     “No solicitors! Get out!” he shouted, pointing towards the door. The other mercenaries quieted then, more than ten sets of eyes falling on Itchy.

 

     The satyr cleared his throat, forced a grin and explained, “Look, I’m not here to disturb you fellas! I just wanted to—”

“Out!” Evan shouted louder.

Itchy ignored him and went on. “—liven things up a little for ya! I got some good ‘shine here for a measly twenty GP per jug.”

 

     Evan rose from his seat, staring Itchy down like a wolf to a lamb. Before he left the table, Glenvar seized the captain’s arm and asked, “Wait, wait! Twenty GP for a full gallon? What’s the scam?”

“Ain’t no scam!” replied Itchy. He carried one of the jugs to the table and uncorked it. “It’s filled to the brim and it’s quality stuff! Smell it!”

 

     Glenvar leaned over the bottle. Not a second later, he recoiled and coughed, “I’ll be damned! That’s the _real_ shite!”

“Last time you were hocking it for fifty,” mentioned Javaan. “Why so cheap now?”

 

     Itchy hesitated, digging his cloven toes into the floorboards. Then he sighed, “Well, uh...okay, the wife’s mad. I need to come home with _somethin’_ or she won’t let me back in the house.”

 

     His gaze flicked up to their faces, smile pleading and pathetic. “Help a poor guy out? I mean, it’s getting awful cold. Someone could freeze to death out there…”

 

     Evan’s scowl hadn’t changed as he thrusted his finger towards the door again. “I told you before, I don’t want you selling that swill here! Now get off our property before we _throw_ you out!”

 

     “Hold on,” said Glenvar, digging through his belt-satchel. “Before ya go, lemme get some of that swill.”

“Glenvar!” Evan scolded his crewman, betrayal all over his face.

 

     Glenvar held two 10GP coins out and Itchy quickly snatched them, tucking them away in his own satchel. Pulling the uncorked jug closer, Glenvar told his captain, “I’m savin’ money, Chief! Weren’t ya just bellyachin’ about the budget?”

“Glenvar, that stuff will make you go blind!” argued Evan.

 

     Knocking back a swig of the moonshine, Glenvar screwed up his face and laughed, “Good! Then I won’t have to lay eyes on ya ugly mutants no more!”

“Let me get one too,” said Javaan, passing more coins to Itchy. Itchy swiped them and handed over a second jug.

Evan turned to the centaur and exclaimed, flabbergasted, “Javaan, come on now!”

 

     “Look,” explained Javaan, “I mean no disrespect, Captain. But that piss-water at the tavern does nothing for me. This?” He raised the jug. “This’ll get a centaur good ‘n drunk like he ought to be!”

 

     “I would like some too,” added Jeimos. They dropped some coins in Itchy’s eager hands and got a heavy jug in return.

“Jeimos! _You_? You’re kidding!” Evan wailed.

 

     “I don’t intend to drink it, Mr. Atlas,” Jeimos told him. “I just want to test it as a fuel source for my latest experiment.” They turned to Itchy and asked, “This _is_ one hundred percent organic, isn’t it?”

Itchy replied, “You bet it is! Made of the finest corn from Gwyn—I mean, uh, _my_ garden.” He paused, then added, “Flora hasn’t hassled me yet, so it must be clean, right?”

 

     Evan waved his hands towards his crew, told them sternly, “Alright, that’s enough! No more! This is the very last time I’m allowing this nonsense.” He turned to Itchy. “Take your poison and get out. If I catch you selling it again, you will be detained for one month.”

 

     “Make it two,” Lukas spoke over a mouthful of bread.

“Alright,” agreed Evan, “you will detained for _two_ months if I catch you doing this again. Do you understand me, Itchy of Taybiya?”

 

     The satyr raised his palms, smiled sheepishly. “Sure, sure! Won’t catch me ‘n my ‘shine around here again, you got my word. You fellas enjoy your meal.” He pushed his cart back through the door. Before it closed, he pointed their way and winked. “Don’t party _too_ hard now!”

 

     With that, the heavy door clunked shut. Evan sighed and returned to his seat while his crew’s chatter swelled once more, laughing and clinking glasses full of bootleg swill.

 

*

 

     With just one bottle left to sell, Itchy wheeled his squeaky cart into the village proper. He considered drinking it himself more than once. He even uncorked it and held it to his lips at one point.

 

     But then Ginger’s face flashed in his memory, and the disappointment in her eyes weighed too heavy on his soul.

 

     He decided it was best to get rid of the jug as fast as possible, so he skipped over everyone he knew wouldn’t give him the time of day. Brogan always threatened to skin him every time he approached the market, Olof didn’t want the moonshine anywhere near his son, and every shopkeeper in town had banned Itchy from their stores at some point.

 

     That is, except Dr. Che. His medical clinic was open to everyone at every hour, without prejudice. Itchy approached the simple wooden building and left his cart at the door.

 

     Hefting the last jug on his shoulder, he barged into the lobby and called, “Moonshine! Got a gallon of good, strong ‘shine here for just twenty GP! Better hurry, ‘cause I only got one left!”

 

     Silence fell around him. Itchy looked around at the room full of patients. They glared daggers back at him, suffering in various states of injury and illness.

 

     “How dare you bring that poison in here!” a faun woman scolded him, squeezing a rag over her bleeding shoulder. “This is a place where people go to get better, not to go blind!”

“It won’t make you blind! Why do folks keep sayin’ that?” Itchy replied, ears and shoulders drawn low.

 

     Just behind the second door, Dr. Che was performing a delicate surgery. His kobold protégé, Tojum, waited by his side with a bucket as he sawed through a traveler’s gangrenous foot. The doctor nearly sawed his own fingers, startled when the door behind him swung open.

 

     Itchy walked in with a heavy jug of moonshine and a big grin. “Evenin’, doc!” he greeted. He set the jug on the operating table, face flushing white when he saw the mess before him. “Whoa. Uh…bad time?”

“Yes!” exclaimed Che, pointing to the door with his bloodied fingers. “I busy! Wait outside. I fix later, okay?”

 

     “Oh, I don’t need fixin’,” said Itchy. Then he patted the bottle, tipping his head towards the unconscious traveler as he went on, “But this poor bastard is gonna be fixin’ for a drink when he wakes up, huh? Listen, I got some real good stuff here that’ll knock out a moose. A centaur, even…”

 

     The little kobold suddenly shoved Itchy towards the door with deceptive strength. “Outs! Ye brings germs in here! Get outs, get outs, get outs!” she growled. Itchy wobbled, argued as he tried to push passed her.

 

     Meanwhile, Che curiously uncorked the bottle and gave it a whiff. He recoiled and quickly corked it again, stooping low to cough on the floor.

 

     “Ow! Hands off me, ya little toad!” Itchy growled and slapped at the kobold.

She only slapped back and barked, “Dirty, stinky skunk-man! Get outs!”

 

     The two squabbled until Che turned to them and said, “No fight, please! Busy enough today!” Then his gaze fixated on Itchy when he said, “This smell good for cleaning. I try it! How much?”

 

     A wide grin spread across Itchy’s face. Tojum wailed as he kicked her aside and answered, “Y’know, I normally charge a hundred for this fine product. But you’re a respectable man of medicine, so I’ll sell it to you for the low, low price of fifty gold pieces. What do ya say?”

 

     Che’s expression fell. “Hm,” he muttered, sliding the bottle across the table. “Nevermind. Cannot afford.”

“Okay, wait!” Itchy splayed his fingers as he approached him. “How does forty sound?”

“Too high.”

“Thirty-five?”

“Too high.”

“Thirty?”

“Too high, cannot afford.”

 

     Itchy slapped a hand over his face. “What _can_ you afford, Doc?”

“Hmm…” Che scratched at his beard, leaving a smear of blood. Tojum clumsily picked herself up from the floor, grumbling as she waddled back to his side.

 

     “Ten GP,” the doctor finally decided, pulling two 5GP coins from the pocket of his white coat.

Itchy’s eyes rounded. “ _Ten_? Aww, Che! Come on!”

“Village pay only a little,” Che explained, gesturing towards the lobby. “They not have a lot, so I not have a lot. I buy for ten GP, no more.”

 

     Itchy let out a long, miserable groan. After a moment of thought, he caved and bitterly snatched the coins. “You wanna grease me up before you screw me like that?” he grumbled.

Che just smiled and told him, “Thank much. Maybe you help medicine science? Save many lives!”

 

     “Yeah, whatever,” muttered Itchy, already making his way out the door. Though it wasn’t much, perhaps the coins clinking in his satchel would be enough to satisfy Ginger. To show her he was the dependable, hard-working person she seemed to think he was at one point.

 

     But he still wouldn’t have a chance unless he showed up both clean and sober, he thought miserably. So he picked up his empty cart and made his way back to the river.

 

*

 

     The frost nymphs were fast approaching and there was still so much to do. Doing it all on her own was hard enough, but Ginger’s nausea wasn’t helping matters. She shouldn’t have eaten that dodgy mushroom, she thought as she threw another log in the fireplace.

 

     For most of the year, satyrs had no need for clothes. Their natural hardiness kept them warm even while humans and elves shivered beside them. But snow and ice was where the line ended.

 

     Ginger knew she and her family would be making use of their coats, scarves, and blankets soon, so she dug them out from their storage places and gave them a sniff.

 

     They hadn’t been used in so long that they’d become mildewy. The satyress dragged out the bucket and washboard, just about to scrub them when she heard a knock at the door.

 

     “Oh, what now?” she sighed, rising to her hooves with a grunt. She peeked through the window, saw Itchy peeking back at her.

 

     He offered a grin and waved. His hair was loose but clean, appeared shiny as it spilled over his shoulders. The mess of mud and leaves was gone and the fur on his legs was straight and smooth, as if recently combed.

 

     Ginger opened the door. She crossed her arms and stared him down silently, waiting for him to incriminate himself.

 

     To her surprise, he simply slipped the satchel off his shoulder and handed it to her. She shot him a skeptical look, but it quickly disappeared when she looked inside. She counted 70GP.

 

     “Please hide that from me,” Itchy told her, “before I do somethin’ stupid with it.”

Ginger let out a sigh. Of defeat or relief, he wasn’t sure until she leaned forward and planted a kiss on his lips. “Come in. It’s getting cold,” she said, stepping aside to let him through.

 

     Itchy turned away as she stashed the coins somewhere, then Ginger returned to her place by the bucket. She explained, “I just thought I’d get the linens clean before it freezes. Tomato is out playing with Frederick. Olof said he’d bring him back in an hour or so.”

 

     “An hour?” queried Itchy. A mischievous grin spread across his face as he approached her. “Then we got plenty of time,” he said, pulling her down to the floor.

 

     Ginger yelped, droplets flying from her wet hands as she flailed.

“Itchy!” she exclaimed.

Nibbling at her neck, he chuckled against her flesh, “That’s right, say my name…”

 

     “Itchy, I mean—ugh! Not now,” she told him bluntly, pushing him to the side. He looked upon her with his long ears drawn back and confusion on his face.

 

     Ginger wiped her wet hands on her legs and continued, “There’s still veggies in the garden that need pulling. I couldn’t get to them all today—I wasn’t feeling well and my hands were cramping terribly.”

 

     She bent her fingers before her. They were peppered with nicks and scrapes. “We can play, but only after those crops are harvested.”

Itchy frowned. “Gotcha,” he sighed, rising to his hooves. Without another word, he swiped a big wicker basket by the door and walked out, rounding the side of the little house.

 

     Outside was a garden, sealed off by a simple wooden fence. Itchy dropped to his knees and began digging up the last of the carrots and potatoes. He felt the air getting more frigid by the minute. Even the bugs had gone into hiding.

 

     The last shred of daylight disappeared by the time Itchy’s basket was full. Just as he lifted it, he saw Tomato standing at the end of the path, waving to Olof before bolting towards the house. Olof held a lantern in one hand, waving at Itchy with the other. Then he plodded away down the trail as Tomato stepped onto the porch.

 

     “Hey! Kiddo!” Itchy called. He carried the basket up to the porch and whispered, “I’ll give ya a shiny coin to piss off for another hour. Go catch up with Olof and ask him if you can stay longer!”

Tomato considered it for a moment. He looked at Olof walking away in the distance, then at Itchy, and then at the door.

 

     “Nah,” he decided. “Mom said she was making cinnamon buns tonight!” With that, he bounced through the door, stubby red tail twitching with excitement. Itchy groaned as he hefted the basket of vegetables into the house, kicking the door shut behind him.

 

     “There they are, my handsome guys!” said Ginger, flashing a weary smile as she set the table. There sat three brand new plates piled with rice and vegetables, all sprinkled with herbs. Off to the side was a plate of three large cinnamon buns, still hot and steaming.

 

     Ginger struck a match and lit a candle on the center of the table, told them, “You got here just in time. Go wash up and come get it while it’s still hot!”

 

     Tomato let out a whoop as he rushed to the wash basin on the counter. Several rags were draped over the side, the water within infused with herbs. The boy wasted no time wetting the rag and washing everything from his hands to his face.

 

     Itchy reluctantly joined him. He dunked a rag in the water and pinched it between two fingers as if picking up a dead rat. Taking a deep breath, the satyr cringed at the sound of splashing water when he wrung it out. Slowly, delicately, he washed away the soil that blackened his hands all the way up to his elbows.

 

     He was still at it long after Tomato sat down. The boy reached for a cinnamon bun, but Ginger slapped at his hand and told him, “Those are for dessert. Clean your plate first.”

 

     The boy let out a dramatic groan and stabbed his spoon into the rice. Ginger folded her hands in her lap. There they remained until Itchy finally joined them at the table, then he and she began eating together. The candle flickered between them in its old glass jar, casting a warm little glow in the darkness.

 

     Itchy felt angry and bitter when he walked in. But he was finding it hard to stay that way the longer he sat there with the two people he loved most—and perhaps the only people who loved him back—eating his first hot meal of the day.

 

     “This is great, Ginj,” he garbled over a full mouth, pointing his spoon at the plate. “Thanks for the grub. And, uh…you know. Letting me back in after what a shit-head I was.”

 

     Tomato broke out into giggles. Ginger furrowed her brow just slightly and warned, “Language…”

“Right! Right. Sorry.” Itchy cleared his throat. “Anyway, I love ya with all my crusty old heart. That’s all I’m tryin’ to say.”

 

     At this, Ginger smiled. “I love you too, my crusty old darling,” she said.

“Do you love me?” Tomato asked his mother, brows raised high.

“Of _course_ I do, Tomato,” she chuckled and leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek.

 

     The boy turned to Itchy and asked, “Do you love me too, Mr. Itchy?”

The satyr choked on his cinnamon roll, pounding a fist against his chest. After the offending bite was dealt with, he side-eyed the child and grumbled, “After lockin’ me out today, I’ll have to think about it…”

 

     “Mom told me to!” Tomato argued.

To which Itchy replied, “She didn’t tell ya to _laugh_ at me!”

“What if she did?”

“I know she didn’t, ‘cause that’s not my Ginger!”

“How do you know?”

“I know your mom inside ‘n out, kiddo, trust me…”

 

     The two bickered back and forth for some time. Just as Ginger opened her mouth to intervene, she quickly closed it and slapped a hand over her lips. Her eyes grew wide, darting back and forth. Itchy and Tomato didn’t notice her distress until she knocked her chair over stumbling towards the window.

 

     The window flew open and her dinner spilled out. Tomato rose from his seat, red brows sagged anxiously.

“Mom?” he queried. Itchy quickly rounded the table to pull her hair back. When the episode passed, Ginger slowly returned to her seat. Her face was pale and worn.

 

     “You okay, Ginj?” Itchy asked as he cautiously rubbed her back.

“I’m—I’m fine,” she said breathlessly, raking her bangs from her eyes. “Ugh, I’ve been like this for weeks. Only off and on, but never this bad. I think I might have a parasite or something.”

 

     “Yeeeah, I was gonna say…” Itchy said slowly, swiping at his neck. “You’ve been getting pretty bloated. No offense, of course! I’m just sayin’, you gotta talk to Che. This ain’t good at all.”

“I’ve just been so busy, I—” Ginger began, then shook her head. “Well, it’s no excuse. I’ll see him first thing in the morning, I promise.”

 

*

 

     Morning light beamed through the eastern window. Tomato slept soundly in the darkness of the loft, but below him, Ginger stirred as the sunlight warmed her face.

 

     The rest of her was so cold, she realized with a shiver. She opened her eyes, only to find Itchy wrapped in their entire wool blanket like a scroll. He snored away like a great rumbling beast.

 

     “Blanket-hog…” she yawned and sat up. A sudden wave of nausea overtook her as she did.

 

     Itchy’s snoring never woke Tomato, for it was a sound he slept to since he was a baby. But when he heard the slightest distress from Ginger, his goatish ears twitched and his eyes snapped open. The boy shot out of bed, scrambled to the edge of the loft to peer at the floor below.

 

     He saw Itchy desperately trying to untangle himself from the blanket while Ginger heaved out the window.

 

     “Mom! You gotta go to the doctor right now!” he cried, bouncing anxiously. “Or you’re gonna throw up your guts and turn inside-out!”

 

     Despite her misery, Ginger let out a wheezing laugh through her gagging. Slowly she pulled her head back through the window and assured him, “No such thing is going to happen, darling. Remember when you got worms from drinking out of that dirty puddle?”

 

     The boy frowned, replied, “No.”

“You were very little. You got sick and bloated just like I am, and I got scared just like you are,” his mother explained, pulling on her wolf pelt coat. “But Dr. Che gave you some medicine that fixed you right up, and now I’m sure he’ll do the same for me. Now, be good and don’t open the door for strangers. I’ll be back very soon and then we can all have breakfast. Don’t even _try_ to sneak cookies—I counted them last night!”

 

     “Okay…” Tomato grumbled, crawling back to collapse on his bed of hay and pelts. Itchy and Ginger left the house bundled in clothes like the civilized folk, for today the ground was white and so too was the sky. Every blade of grass was coated with glittering frost—the handiwork of frost nymphs, the isanae.

 

     The isanae’s distant giggling echoed through the forest like the gentle crackling of ice. They hid away in the trees, spying on the satyr couple as they passed. Itchy could sense them, could feel the cold air radiating from their glittering white bodies. Every so often, he saw a white flash as one danced through the thicket.

 

     “They’re so _early_ ,” Ginger whispered to Itchy. “I hope Flora’s okay.”

Itchy swatted at the air. “Aw, she’s fine! I just talked to her yesterday. Said she was burying herself last night.”

“Oh my. We might have a very early spring then. Did she say anything else?”

Itchy hesitated. After a moment, he replied, “Nah. Nothin’.”

 

     The two arrived at the clinic, waited in the lobby among some faces Itchy recognized from yesterday. Che hardly slept, he was sure. On the front desk sat two boxes—one full of coins, the other with offerings of coffee beans and tea bags.

 

     The wait should have been much longer, but when Che poked his head out to call the next patient, he skipped right over them when he saw Ginger.

 

     “Oh, Ginger! Come, come, I fix now!” he grinned and beckoned her into the examination room. Ginger tried to rise from her seat, but her legs wobbled and she collapsed back down.

 

     Itchy pulled her to her hooves as she said, “Gosh, I’m just so tired already. It’s like I didn’t sleep at all!”

“It’s okay, Ginj. Dr. Che’s gonna fix ya up. Aren’t ya, Doc?” said Itchy, eyeballing the doctor. Tojum wobbled forth to close the door behind them.

 

     Che gestured to the table, replied, “First I find problem. Then maybe fix. Or if no fix, remove!” He waggled a bone saw in the air. Ginger gasped, bringing her hands to her lips.

Itchy was one second from letting a fist fly before Che raised his hands and laughed, “Joke! Is just joke, ha-ha! Now, why my favorite lady here today?”

 

     He listened intently as Ginger explained her bouts of nausea, her bloating belly, her terrible fatigue and bothersome sweating. All the while, Itchy’s anxious gaze travelled over the arsenal of sharp instruments and mysterious jars all around him.

 

     Tojum sat on a stool in the corner, cleaning a scalpel. Satisfied with her work, she placed it beside the other instruments and then carried a bag full of bloody white coats out the door.

 

     “…And all this has been going on for several weeks now. It just seems to be getting worse and worse,” Ginger finished. Che nodded with a ponderous little sound. She watched as he began rifling through cabinets.

Then he handed her an empty jar and said, “I need urine sample, please.” He pointed her to the restroom—simply a closet with a chamber pot on the floor.

 

     Itchy had no doubt Ginger was in good hands. Still, his stomach tightened and sweat beaded his brow like morning dew, for being in this room would always remind him of the day Ginger gave birth to Tomato. That was a decade ago now, yet it felt like only yesterday. The fear, the uncertainty, it was all just the same.

 

     Che sipped coffee while he waited, leafing through sheets on a clipboard. When Ginger returned the jar to him, he sprinkled a mix of herbs in and swirled it around. The urine turned from pale yellow to fluorescent green.

 

     A smile spread across Che’s face, eyes wrinkling above. “Congratulation!” he exclaimed. “You have baby!”

The satyr couple’s jaws fell slack. They shared wide-eyed glanced. Then Itchy turned back to the doctor and said, “Joke? That’s a joke, right? Ha-Ha…?”

 

     “No jokes,” Che told him. “Little Tomato have brother or sister! Very exciting, yes?”

“Dr. Che, that’s impossible! I-I’m thirty-six years old!” blurted Ginger.

The doctor nodded, tilting his head this way and that. “Yes, very strange for satyr to birth after thirty. After twenty-five, even. But not impossible! My mother birth me age thirty-two. And look! I become doctor!”

 

     Ginger brought a hand to her head, expression blanking. Itchy stood behind her, giving her something to lean on as she threatened to fall backwards. “It must have happened in spring then,” she said quietly.

 

     Che went on, tone sobering, “Because of age, baby like egg. Very fragile. You need much rest, much healthy food and water. No yell, no cry, and no hard work!” Scrawling something on his clipboard, he handed the notes to Ginger. “Relax, be happy lady until baby is borned. Happy lady, happy baby, you see? Tomato is big brother, big man now. He take care of you.”

 

     “Wait a minute,” Itchy butted in, gesturing to himself. “He’s just a kid. _I’m_ the man of the house! I’ll be taking care of her and Tomato _and_ the baby, thank you very much!”

 

     Che smiled back at him, tight and strained. “Yes. Of course you will,” he said.

 

*

 

     Itchy hesitated for a long while. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it several times. Finally he worked up the nerve and asked, “The baby, uh…it _is_ mine, isn’t it?”

 

     Ginger stopped on the dirt path, whirling around to face him. The hurt on her face was about what he expected. “Itchy, of course it is!” she said. “Why would you even ask that?”

 

     “Hey, look, we spend a lot of time apart.” The satyr raised his hands. “And I know that’s totally my fault. And I’m sorry. I’m just sayin’…if you saw other guys while I was out bein’ a drunken slob, I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

 

     With a sigh, Ginger continued down the trail to her house. “Well, I didn’t. Not ever,” she said. After a moment, she glanced back at him and asked, “Did you?”

Itchy pawed at the back of his neck. “If I did,” he began with a wince, “I was too drunk to remember it.”

 

     Another sigh gusted from Ginger’s nostrils. Itchy couldn’t see her face behind the hood of her cloak, but he was sure it was burdened with disappointment in him.

 

     The satyr looked around, desperate for solutions. There were no flowers to pick for her. He looked back at Ginger, slowly plodding down the path.

 

     Her posture was hunched, every step labored as she wrapped her arms protectively around her belly. He hadn’t seen her move this way since…

 

     “Oh! Itchy, no! You’ll break your poor back!” Ginger cried out as he lifted her off her feet, carried her along bridal-style.

“No way! I’m just as strong as I was a decade ago!” he grinned.

“Except you’ve gotten ten years older and I’ve gotten twice as fat! Put me down before you hurt yourself!”

“I’m fine, Ginj! You’re supposed to take it easy, remember? Doctor’s orders.”

 

     Ginger was just about to protest again when she heard a loud, grinding crack. “What was that?” she queried.

Itchy forced his spine straight, croaked through gnashed teeth, “Nothin’.”

 

     Before long, the two arrived back home. Tomato opened the door and Itchy carried Ginger over the threshold, carefully setting her down in their bed of hay and blankets.

 

     The boy’s eyes darted between them. “Did you get the medicine?” he asked. Ginger and Itchy looked at one another.

Then Ginger beckoned her son into her lap and explained, “No, darling. I don’t need medicine, because it turns out I’m not sick at all.”

 

     She rubbed her round belly. “You’re going to have a little sister, Tomato. A baby is growing in my tummy, and I think sometime this winter she’ll come out to meet us.”

 

     Tomato was stricken silent, staring wide-eyed at his mother’s belly. Itchy raised an eyebrow and asked, “How do you know it’s a girl?”

Ginger shrugged. “I just do.”

“A little sister,” Tomato said quietly. Then his aqua eyes met hers. “Are you guys playing a joke on me?”

Ginger tried to answer, but she broke into high, snorting laughter instead.

 

     “Ain’t no joke, kiddo,” Itchy explained. “Your mom’s gotta take it easy for a while. That means I’m stickin’ around to help, which means _you_ can’t be gettin’ under my hooves!”

 

     Tomato furrowed his brow and exclaimed, “I wanna help too! Can’t I help, Mom?”

“You can _both_ help if you really want to,” said Ginger, eyeing them both. “But I don’t need it, really! Just give me a few minutes to rest and then I’ll get breakfast started.”

 

     “Oh, no, no,” Itchy waggled his finger at her. “I’m not havin’ no kid with three arms or a forked tongue or whatever! Don’t worry about a thing from now on, Ginj. I got everything handled.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Ginger sank into the bed. “If you’re sure…”

 

     Tomato scrambled towards the counter, where Itchy pulled dishes down from the shelves. “We should have cinnamon buns for breakfast,” the boy suggested.

“Just because your mom’s on the bench doesn’t mean the game has no rules,” Itchy told him. “She’d make oatmeal, so that’s what we’re havin’.”

 

     Ginger looked up from her book, calling from across the room, “Will you add cinnamon to mine, please? I’ve been craving cinnamon like crazy.”

“Sure thing, lassie.”

“Let’s just have cinnamon rolls then!” exclaimed Tomato.

Ginger told him, “That’s too much sugar, Tomato. Your grown-up teeth are coming in, so you have to take better care of them from now on.”

 

     “She’s right. You don’t want a mouth like mine, do ya?” said Itchy, baring his teeth at the boy. They were as worn, crooked, and crowded as the slums of Yerim-Mor Kingdom.

 

     The boy stepped back, face paling.

 

     After breakfast, Itchy and Tomato donned their cloaks to head out into the forest. There was plenty of loose wood to be found, but hardly any of it was dry. Everything on the ground was damp with dew and melted frost. Itchy shielded his eyes as he looked upward, saw dry branches high above.

 

     “Shit,” he sighed.

Tomato giggled, “You said a swear!”

“Yeah, yeah…Shut up ‘n bring some of those branches down, will ya?” said Itchy, pointing towards the lofty branches of a spruce. Tomato’s expression blanked.

 

     “Really? Mom would never let me climb that high!”

“Well, she ain’t around. As far as she knows, this never happened. Got it?”

The boy blinked. “I thought we weren’t allowed to break trees. Flora said so.”

“She ain’t around either. So hurry and do it while we still can!”

 

     Tomato nodded and approached the gnarled old trunk. Notches and knobs warped its bark, protruding just enough for him to hold on to as he scaled it. Itchy stood nearby, throwing glances this way and that for prying eyes. Little did he know, the eyes were in front of him the whole time.

 

     Tomato was about fifteen feet off the ground when he grasped a hole in the tree. He let out a screech when that hole suddenly clamped down on his hand. His hooves scrambled against the bark as he tried to pull it free. “Mr. Itchy!” he cried. “The tree won’t let me go!”

 

     Itchy stared wide-eyed, grasped his own horns. He called back, “Okay! Okay! Don’t panic! Uh…” as he felt around his person, checking every hidden pocket in the lining of his cloak.

 

     Then he found what he was looking for—a book of matches—and struck one against his hoof. He held the lit match inches from the roots of the tree and hollered up at it, “Let him go or you’re goin’ up in flames, ya hear me?”

 

     Tomato let out another wail when two eyes suddenly opened before him, golden and glowing. He realized his hand was stuck in no mere notch, but the mouth of an ancient rooted dryad. Sap sprayed when she spit him out, sending him flipping and flailing.

 

     Itchy tossed the match into some wet leaves and scrambled to catch him. The impact was much harder than he expected, and both of them hit the forest floor in a heap.

 

     Bright shapes danced before Itchy’s eyes. When they faded and the breath returned to his lungs, he saw white clouds passing above the canopy.

 

     Then Tomato’s face entered his view, queried, “Mr. Itchy, are you okay?”

The older satyr coughed as he sat up. “I hope so,” he croaked. The two of them looked back to the ancient dryad, glaring down at them with her craggy, wooden face.

 

     “You have disturbed my slumber,” her voice droned like a swarm of hornets. Itchy grunted as he rose to his feet, brushing the pine needles from his furry legs.

 

     He seized Tomato’s hand and held it towards the sky. Blood oozed from the boy’s palm and knuckles. “And _you_ almost chomped the kid’s hand off, ya rotten old vermin motel! What’s your problem?”

 

     “Only vermin climb my trunk,” the dryad said dully. “Peoples are supposed to know better.”

Itchy stared her down in silence. They’d been caught red-handed—quite literally—and he had nothing non-incriminating to say to her.

 

     “Come on,” he grumbled, dragging Tomato away by his cloak. The little satyr cradled his injured hand, throwing one last look at the dryad before she was out of sight.

 

     The duo stopped beside a large, mossy boulder. Itchy stripped off some of the moss and wrapped Tomato’s hand with it. “Make a fist,” he told the boy, demonstrating with his own, “tight as you can ‘til the bleedin’ stops.”

“Are we in trouble?” asked Tomato, eyes wide.

 

     Itchy hesitated before he replied, “I dunno. If we are, we won’t hear about it ‘til spring anyway.”

“Maybe we should listen to Flora from now on,” Tomato said with the slightest quiver in his voice.

 

     Itchy sighed through his nostrils. He planted his hands on his hips, stared into the forest for a long moment. Then he asked, “How’s your hand?”

“Um, it hurts a little. I think it’s okay though. I mean, I’m fine.” Tomato paused. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell mom about it. She’ll just be worried.”

 

     “’Atta boy. See? You’re gettin’ it! ” Itchy grinned and rustled the boy’s shaggy hair. Tomato smiled bright as the sun, then they ventured deeper into the woods in search of less hostile trees.

 

*

 

     Tomato tossed another stick into the fire. It crackled away in the fireplace, heating pots of water on the rack above. Itchy flipped the bedside table—which was really an overturned wash tub—and sprinkled some dried herbs in the bottom.

 

     “Are you sure you don’t need help?” asked Ginger, lying on her side with a book. She’d hardly moved from her bed all day.

Itchy shook his head, assured her, “I told ya, Ginj, we got this! What kind of idiot can’t run a bath?”

“Well, with how you feel about water…” she mentioned.

 

     The satyr waved a dismissive hand. “Aw, I don’t care. Long as I’m with you, nothin’ scares me at all.”

Ginger smiled, warm and genuine. Minutes later, the pots were simmering. With rags in their palms, Itchy and Tomato each grabbed a pot and brought it to the tub.

 

     Itchy approached with Tomato just behind. He poured the water in, too tall to notice the boy as he turned around to grab another. They bumped into eachother, Ginger dropping her book with a gasp as Itchy let out a long, ragged howl.

 

     Tomato jumped away from the hot splash just in time, but everything from Itchy’s naval to his hooves wasn’t so lucky.

 

*

 

     Olof lit his way with a lantern, hooves clip-clopping against the dark trail. After waiting several hours to be treated, Itchy was finally on his way home from the clinic.

 

     His legs were wrapped in gauze all the way up to his thighs. He rode upon the centaur’s spotted back, wincing with every step.

 

     Olof took the satyr all the way up to his porch, reaching back to help him down. Itchy thanked him and waddled inside, greeted by a pleasant warmth and a peaceful scene.

 

     The room was dim, lot only by a single dying candle on the beside “table”. Just to the right, Ginger slept soundly in bed with Tomato snoring in her arms.

 

     Itchy’s hoofsteps felt thunderous on the wooden planks. He carefully tip-toed towards them and slipped under the heavy wool blanket, sandwiching Tomato between himself and his mother. Tomato remained fast asleep, but Ginger did not. Her orange lashes fluttered open, eyes squinting at a hairy, weary face in the darkness.

 

     “Oh, my darling,” she whispered, caressing Itchy’s beard. “How did it go?”

Itchy whispered back, “Fine, fine…I mean, horrible. But fine.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

The satyr nodded. “In a few weeks, he says. But let me tell you, if that pot was just one degree hotter, you wouldn’t be gettin’ another baby outta me, that’s for sure…”

 

     Ginger pressed a hand to her chest, sighed with relief. He paused, then added, “I’m sorry, Ginger. I’m a lot better at the outdoor stuff than the indoor stuff.”

 

     Carefully leaning over Tomato, she planted a kiss on Itchy’s forehead and said, “You’re doing fine. I just hope you can keep it up. Raising one child is hard enough. I can’t possibly raise _two_ on my own. At least, not in the way they deserve.”

 

     “I know, I know,” Itchy muttered. He reached forth and found her hand under the covers, gave it a squeeze.

She tipped her head towards Tomato and went on, “I’ve never expect you to provide for him. That’s something I never take for granted whenever it happens. But this baby shares your blood, so I hope you’ll be there for her whenever she needs you. Whenever _we_ need you.”

 

     Itchy’s heart vibrated like a lute string. Ginger felt his hand begin to sweat and quiver. His voice cracked ever so slightly as his stomach tried to escape through his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “I-I’ll be there. I promise.”

 

*


	2. Degenerates

### [CHAPTER 2: DEGENERATES]

 

     _EARLY WINTER, 6005_

 

     Ginger was always responsible with the family’s resources. She meticulously calculated how much food to plant in the spring and how much to store for winter. She was frugal with their gold and their preserves.

 

     But now in the late stages of her pregnancy, all that calculation seemed to fly out the window. She ate like a starved beast despite her growing weight, never really satisfied no matter how much she stuffed herself. The one thing she craved above all else, however, was…

 

     “Cinnamon! Is that so much to ask?” Ginger wailed, tearing through the kitchen shelves for the fourth time that hour. She scoured the whole house as Itchy and Tomato trailed her, begging her to stop and relax. She would have none of it.

 

     “How could we run out so quickly?” she growled. She turned towards the satyrs behind her, pointing an accusing finger. “It was one of you, wasn’t it? I told you not to touch my cinnamon! Every day, I feel so sick and miserable, and it’s the one thing that takes the edge off! How could you treat me this way? You mean, awful boys!”

 

     “Ginger, calm down!” Itchy pleaded. “Nobody touched it, I swear! At least, I know _I_ didn’t.” He glanced at the boy beside him.

Tomato quickly defended himself, “I didn’t either! I promise!”

“Liars!” Ginger cried, stomping back to her bed.

 

     There she wrapped herself in her blanket and sulked, “I do so much for you two and I never ask a thing for myself! All I want is this one simple thing, but can I have it? No!”

 

     Itchy approached her and barked, “That ain’t fair! Ya know who ate all the cinnamon, Ginj? _You_ did! You’ve been puttin’ away everything in the house like a damn maniac!”

 

     Ginger lifted her head, glared at him from the shadow of the blanket. He suddenly lost his nerve, took a step back and stammered, “Uh, not that there’s anything wrong with that! You’re eatin’ for two, I get it.” He tipped his head towards the kitchen area. “But do you think…I dunno, you could slow down just a _little_? The pantry’s lookin’ kinda empty and—”

 

     Ginger’s glare hardened, answered his question without a word. “Okay, nevermind,” Itchy said quickly. “Forget I said anything. Tell ya what: I’ll go out and get you more cinnamon if you just hand me the gold. Fair?”

 

     The satyress’ expression softened slightly. She sat up and considered it for a long moment. Could she trust her gold in Itchy’s hands? Not usually. But in the end, her cravings pulled up the secret loose floor board while he turned his back.

 

     She handed him the little burlap sack of coins—all the savings they had—and said, “Pick up any groceries we need, but please don’t come back without cinnamon. And don’t come back drunk either!”

 

     Itchy tucked the bag in his satchel and planted a kiss on her lips. “I told you, Ginj, I’m a new man! Just relax, I’ll be back soon.”

 

     With that, he donned his fur cloak and headed out the door. Tomato looked at him, then back at his cranky mother and quickly made a decision.

 

     “Wait! I’m coming too!” he called, snagging his own cloak before running after Itchy.

 

*

 

     “What’d I tell ya, scalawag? I don’t wanna see yer damned, dirty mug ‘round here no more!” bellowed Brogan. He rushed towards Itchy with his fists balled, one raised and ready to strike. His long leather coat billowed behind him in the chilly wind.

 

     Itchy raised his hands and took a step back, nearly tripping over Tomato behind him. His hooves crunched softly in the snow. “Woah, woah! Brogan, wait! I ain’t here to steal, I’m here to _buy_.”

 

     The dirty-blonde satyr stopped just a foot before him, fist still clenched and raised. “Yeah?” he queried doubtfully. “And since when do ya got a coin to yer name, huh?”

“Since today,” Itchy grinned, pulling the sack of coins from his cloak pocket. He jiggled it in the air and the gold chimed.

 

     The market lie just down the path. Behind Brogan, Itchy could see Gwyneth standing at her stall, all bundled in a long wool dress. She was watching them with her piercing elven eyes.

 

     Itchy shoved Brogan aside and waved the sack of gold high, called, “Hey, Gwyneth! I got money! You want it or not?”

 

     The elfenne narrowed her eyes at him. Brogan turned to her, eagerly awaited some signal to pound Itchy into the ground. To his disappointment, she simply called back, “Fine, get over here!”

 

     Itchy blew a raspberry at Brogan before rushing by, Tomato closely in tow. Brogan’s face turned beet red, steam gusting from his nostrils in the cold air.

He trudged back to the market while Itchy approached Gwyneth.

 

     “Please tell me you got cinnamon,” Itchy said, pathetic and pleading in his tone.

“Cinnamon?” Gwyneth raised a thin, black eyebrow, then dug through her stock of spices in the crate behind her. She plunked a jar of cinnamon sticks on the counter and went on, “Sure, I got that. For an arm and a leg.”

“How much?” asked Itchy, opening his bag.

 

     “Thirty GP.”

“ _Thirty GP_?” Itchy blurted, nearly dropped his gold. “For a little jar of cinnamon? What kinda con are you runnin’ these days, Gwyn?”

 

     The elfenne brought her hands to her hips, explained bluntly, “You think _you’re_ getting screwed? The wholesaler’s got my tits in a vice, and on top of that, my delivery man just _doubled_ his rate!”

 

     She gestured to the northern road. “Apparently the roads are a nightmare, all this snow and ice jamming things up. Horses are breaking their legs all over the place. It’s terrible.”

 

     Itchy let out a groan as he slowly dragged a palm down his face. Tomato looked at him, then at Gwyneth. He fell silent in thought while Itchy argued back and forth with the elfenne, trying to haggle down.

 

     “Twenty-five,” he suggested.

“No,” Gwyneth told him sternly.

“How about twenty?”

“No.”

“Ten.”

“That’s not how haggling works, you shit-head!”

 

     Gwyneth placed a hand over the jar and spoke through her teeth, “You’re paying thirty or you’re leaving with nothing, and that’s final. So what’ll it be?”

Itchy stared at the ground for a long moment, trying to think of another way. Then he heard a little sniffle, looked to his right and saw tears in Tomato’s eyes.

 

     The boy tugged at Gwyneth’s dress and whimpered, “Pretty-pretty-pretty please, Ms. Fallbrooke? Mommy and Daddy don’t have any money…It’s so cold at our house…”

 

     His breath hitched and he closed his eyes tightly, tears falling down his face. “All we wanted was cinnanin buns to keep us warm…please…or we’re going…to die…!” He threw in a cough for good measure, pretending to shiver.

 

     Gwyneth stared down at the sniffling child, expression dull and unaffected. She glanced back at Itchy, grinning nervously.

 

     “Yeah, that crap doesn’t work on me,” she told them flatly.

Itchy begged, “Come on, Gwyn! How about fifteen today, fifteen next week?”

“Pff, please. I’ll be waiting on that debt ‘till I’m dead in the ground. Now buy something or piss off!”

 

     Defeated, Itchy begrudgingly counted out six 5GP coins and slapped them on the counter, “accidentally” dropping a few on the ground as he did. After stooping to pick them up, Gwyneth pitched the jar of cinnamon at him. He grunted as it hit him in the gut, fumbling to catch it.

 

     With the inflated prices, there was no coin left for other groceries. So Itchy sent Tomato home with the cinnamon and set out towards his distillery, off to earn a living in the most honest dishonest way he knew how.

 

*

 

     With the fourth and final jug corked, Itchy loaded the moonshine into his cart. He insulated them with snow and struggled to wheel the cart down the trail. Several times, it got stuck and he used his hands to dig the wheels free. Time was moving but the cart was not.

 

     Itchy wiped the sweat off his brow, steam gusting before his lips. Already he was out of breath, fingers numb, and he wasn’t even half-way to the main road. He stood there for a long moment, scratching at his beard. Ginger was certainly in no condition to help him and Tomato would only get in the way, he thought.

 

     He wouldn’t reveal the location of his distillery to anyone else. There was no one else in the village he trusted. For all the villagers who loved Ginger like a mother, a sister, a friend, a teacher…they regarded her lover like a diseased rodent.

 

     Itchy sighed and leaned against the cart for a rest. He just had to be persistent, he thought. Uncorking one of the jugs, he brought it to his lips and took a long swig. Just to warm his bones, he reasoned. He wasn’t going anywhere with cold, stiff fingers.

 

     In minutes, he felt a kind, familiar warmth spread through his veins. The moment he uncorked the bottle, the pungent smell of moonshine brought nostalgia for something he couldn’t even remember. Something—or someone—warm and loving.

 

     The first sip was like a hug from the mother he lost long ago, the hearty laugh of old Mr. Sarfeesha, the dingy tavern he used to call home. He couldn’t help but take another.

 

     Two drinks turned to three. Itchy still felt sober, so what was the harm in one more? Upon the fourth, he felt happy and energized. Perhaps the fifth would get him moving the cart faster, and maybe a sixth would take away the pain in his back…

 

     The day kept passing by as the cart remained static. Itchy was anything but static as he polished off the last of the jug and threw it on the ground with a roar. He stumbled aimlessly around the clearing, cold hands clawing at his teary face.

 

     Half-way through the bottle, he’d realized he was already too drunk to go home, so he reasoned that he might as well finish it off anyway.

 

     And when the last drop hit his tongue, he realized he’d made a terrible mistake. Now it was much too late.

 

     The satyr stumbled against a tree trunk and vomited down the front of his cloak. He shrugged the soiled garment off and tossed it aside. Then he staggered away and slipped, collapsing on his belly. He tried to stand, but he didn’t get far.

 

     The world was spinning too fast and it wouldn’t stop, no matter how much he begged. So he lied there, sobbing and cursing himself in the snow, too inebriated to feel its cold anyway. “Idiot…” he warbled. “Fuckin’ idiot…Ya don’t deserve ‘em…Ya don’t deserve ‘em!”

 

     Pair by pair, little blue lights blinked to life in the forest. The eyes of isanae, staring hungrily at the miserable satyr as they waited for their frost to claim him.

 

*

 

     Itchy heard the distant crackle of fire. It sounded far away like a dream, gradually becoming clearer. He felt its heat on his face and opened his bleary, blurry eyes.

 

     Before him was a familiar stone fireplace. He sat up with a pained groan, every joint in his body stiff and sore. He felt as though he might vomit, but there was nothing in his stomach to lose.

 

     Groggily he turned his head, scanning the little room. Ginger’s house, he realized. _Their_ house. Or it used to be, and hopefully it still would be as pieces of last night slowly returned to him.

 

     He’d made a terrible mistake. He knew that. After months of sobriety, he’d given in to his old abusive lover, alcohol. She’d menaced him his entire life; always there for him when he was troubled but nowhere to be found when he was _in_ trouble. She wasn’t half the lover Ginger was, he thought, spotting the satyress in the kitchen area.

 

     Itchy was lying on the floor not far from the fireplace, covered by three heavy, woolen blankets. He pulled them away and struggled to stand.

 

     “Ginger…?” he croaked, and then his quaky legs gave way. Ginger turned, saw him collapse on his knees before her.

 

     She regarded him with scowling lips and an angry brow, but her eyes held nothing but sadness. Turning back to the counter, she resumed making preserves.

 

     “Tomato went out looking for you,” she told him quietly. “He found you blacked out in the snow beside your cart. You would have died out there if Olof hadn’t rushed you home.”

 

     Itchy remained on his knees. Shame held him in place while it turned his empty gut. Ginger refused to look at him as she went on, “You reeked of moonshine and you were white as a corpse. Olof helped us run a hot bath just to get the color back in you. He brought us extra blankets and stayed for hours, just to make sure we were okay.”

 

     Finally she turned to him, green eyes sparkling with tears. “You _promised_ me, Itchy. I feel like such a fool! I should have known better than to trust you! You always do this!” Her voice crumbled to a squeak as she buried her face in her palms.

 

     Tomato quietly crawled out of bed. He approached the edge of the loft and peered down at them below. Neither of them noticed the boy as Itchy scrambled to his hooves, pulled Ginger into a desperate embrace.

 

     “No, no, Ginger, please!” Itchy begged. “Don’t cry! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

The satyress pushed him away and spoke through her teeth, mindful of her volume when she said, “If you were really sorry, you’d stop doing this! You always promise you’ll change but you never do! I thought…”

 

     She shook her head, silent for a moment. Then she continued solemnly as she rubbed her bulging belly, “I thought this time would be different. But we can’t depend on you for anything, can we? What if I had gone into labor tonight? The first ones to lay eyes on your daughter would be myself, the doctor, and the damn _neighbor_!” She punctuated herself with a stamp of her hoof. Itchy flinched.

 

     “Ginger, I…” he began quietly, swallowing the spasm in his throat. “You’re right. I’m an idiot. I’m a worthless, pathetic loser who can’t be trusted as far as his ass can be thrown. I _know_ that.”

 

     He paused, wincing as if in pain. He took her hand and went on, “But I do _try_. I try as hard as I can, it’s just…it ain’t good enough. I ain’t good enough for you or Tomato or…” He gestured to her belly and sighed, “ _Her_.”

 

     Ginger quickly pulled her hand away and crossed her arms. “So you’re leaving us, is that it?” she spat bitterly. “I expected as much. I saw it coming the moment we left the clinic!”

 

     “No!” Itchy exclaimed much too loud. He slapped a hand over his mouth and peeked up at he loft, where he assumed Tomato was sleeping. But he saw the boy looking down at him through anxious eyes.

 

     Trapping Ginger in a tight embrace, Itchy told her, “I won’t leave. I promise. And that’s a _real_ promise.” He paused for a long time.

 

     Then he withdrew and added slowly, “Unless you wanted me to. I wouldn’t blame you. I mean, shit, you could obviously do better. Ugh, I’m sorry...” He dragged his hands down his face, streaking the sweat from his brow to his beard.

 

     “Itchy,” Ginger sighed, “I don’t want you to leave. I still _love_ you. All I want is for you to think about the future for once! For all the time you spend dwelling on the past, you think you’d learn from the mistakes you’ve made.”

 

     “Yeah. You’d think,” Itchy grumbled, shoulders jumping. “But that’s why I get so drunk in the first place. So I don’t have to dwell on the past or think about the future. Ain’t that some shit?” he finished, more of a statement than a question.

 

     A tense silence passed between them. The fire popped nearby, casting the room in a bold orange glow. Tomato chewed his nails at the edge of the loft.

 

     Itchy broke the silence when he shook his head, said through his teeth, “I gotta do better. Damn it, I _can_ do better. I _will_!” He kneeled there before the satyress, leaned his head against her belly.

 

     He told the baby inside, “I will. By the time you meet your papa, he won’t be no loser. He’s gonna keep his promises to you, kiddo.” He glanced up at Ginger. “That’s the first one.”

 

     Letting out a long, weary sigh, Ginger sank to the floor with him and they held eachother tight. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” she told him.

Itchy planted kisses all over her head, nuzzling his cheek against her orange hair as he said, “You’re bustin’ at the seams, Ginj. Shouldn’t even be out of bed.”

 

     He rose up and lifted her off her feet. After placing her in bed, he dragged the wool blankets over her and added, “I’ll finish the chores, okay? What are we doin’?”

 

     He turned to the counter. Upon it were several jars, a bottle of vinegar, a pot of brine, and a heavy squash the size of his head.

 

     “Olof brought us some food,” said Ginger. “It was very kind of him, but I don’t think he realized how little we eat compared to centaurs. I was just trying to get it all canned before it spoiled.”

Itchy grinned and picked up a spoon. “Got it,” he said, and began scooping out the squash. After a while he asked, “So, did you get your cinnamon?”

 

     Ginger sighed, “I did. Oh, Itchy, I had no idea it would be so expensive! I feel just terrible. I’m sorry I was such a beast about it. I should have never even asked.”

 

     “Don’t feel bad,” he told her. He turned to her with a grin, poked at the corners of his mouth. “Happy lady, happy baby. Remember what that old quack said? If that cinnamon made you happy, it was worth all the gold in the world.”

 

     “Not if we have none left! That was all the money we had saved! All because of a stupid craving—”

“Hey, don’t worry.” Itchy tipped the pot of brine over the jar, drowning the squash inside. “Last night wasn’t a total waste. I got four—well, _three_ jugs of shine ready to sell.”

 

     Ginger’s frown returned. “If that awful mercenary captain catches you, he’s not going to be happy. I don’t see how you can raise your daughter from behind bars.”

 

     “That won’t happen,” he assured her. “Trust me, I got an idea.”

 

*

 

     That evening, when the rest of the chores were finished, Itchy left the house with Tomato. The snow crunched beneath their hooves as they made their way through the western forest, down the narrow trail to Itchy’s distillery. There they found the cart full of moonshine, still stuck in the snow where he’d left it.

 

     Itchy approached an old tree, inspected it carefully for any faces before he tore off a sturdy branch. He broke off a smaller segment and handed it to Tomato, then the two used them to sweep snow off the path. Just a layer or two was all they needed, then the cart could pass over the packed ice beneath.

 

     With their combined efforts, they moved the cart all the way down the trail to Ginger’s house. Parking it on the porch, Itchy briefly disappeared inside. He returned with Ginger in his arms, the satyress bundled up in garments of wool and fur. Itchy placed her in the cart and off they went, down the main road towards the mercenary compound.

 

     Ginger was just about to comment on how clear the road was when they saw Olof ahead, dragging a plow behind him. It was harnessed to his equine body, no different from a mule dragging a plow across a farmer’s fields.

 

     “Good evening, Olof!” Ginger called. “Did you plow the roads yourself?” Itchy maneuvered her closer to the centaur as he pushed ahead, slowly clearing the way. He held a long wooden staff in his hands, likely to spare himself a fall if he slipped.

 

     Olof replied, “Yes, I’ve been working since sunrise! But I’m afraid I cannot get to them all today. I will work some more tomorrow.”

 

     “Yeah? And who paid ya to break your back like this?” asked Itchy.

“No one asked me to do it.” Olof shrugged. “I just fear if I do not, someone may slip and hurt themselves. We centaurs must be careful. Our legs do not mend quickly as yours do.”

 

     Tomato grinned and said knowingly, “I bet Ms. Elska will like that…”

Olof flinched. A blush tinged his windburned cheeks. He kept his head forward, gait steady. “Not just for her,” he said quickly. “I do this for everyone. See? Today you can push your cart, no troubles.”

 

     The trio of satyrs fell silent, throwing glances at one another. Then Itchy let out a soft groan, said, “Yeah. Thanks, by the way. For takin’ me home and feedin’ us and…everything.”

 

     “Of course.” Olof smiled back at him. “I am happy you are well. I would feel much sadness to lose you, my friend.”

Itchy cocked his head. “You would? After what a garbage neighbor I been all these years? I’d think you’d dance on my grave.”

 

     Olof chuckled, “You are a nice family. Sometimes loud…” He tipped his head to the side. “Sometimes need help…” Then to the other side. “But you have much love for eachother, even when times are not so easy. Reminds me of my clan, back in those old times. Happy times. Happy family.”

 

     The satyrs looked at eachother once more, exchanging smiles. Olof added, “Where are you going today, my friends?”

“Just to visit the mercenaries,” replied Ginger. “I’m sure the boys can sweep the rest of the way clear.”

Olof shook his head. “No, no. Just follow me. I will clear the path.”

“Olof, you don’t have to go out of your way for us. You’ve done plenty.”

 

     “It’s no trouble,” the centaur told her. “I was going to visit them anyway.”

Tomato snickered, bouncing along beside Itchy, “Who are you going to visit? Your giiirrrlfriend?”

Olof’s posture straightened. He kept his eyes forward when he replied stiffly, “I don’t understand what you mean. You are a silly boy.”

 

     “I’m talking about Ms. Elska! She said you’re sooo handsome!”  Tomato told him.

Olof suddenly turned to face him, face red as a beet. “What? When?”

“Never,” Tomato laughed. “But you got excited, huh?”

 

     The centaur’s expression fell. He turned around, plodding on silently as he raked a hand over his head.

“Tomato, shame on you! Don’t tease Mr. Olof!” Ginger scolded her son, but he and Itchy had already burst into laughter.

 

     They arrived at the gate of the Freelance Good Guys’ compound. Olof led the satyrs through, passed Lukas’ treehouse and Evan’s barn, all the way up to the plaza between the boarding house and the dining hall. It seemed most of the snow here had already been cleared, with a few shovels still lying on the roadsides.

 

     Olof unbuckled his harness, detaching the plow from his body.

“Everyone should be having dinner,” said Itchy. “Let’s see if they want some drinks with that. You comin’, Olof?”

The centaur shook his head and began heading towards the boarding house. “No. I am to meet someone for dinner somewhere else.”

 

     “Have fun then, and thanks for the ride!” Ginger called as Itchy pushed the cart forward. Olof waved back at them, then disappeared in the boarding house across the plaza. Tomato pulled the dining hall’s heavy door open while Itchy maneuvered the cart through.

 

     They stepped through a wall of warmth, the air pungent with seared meat. Chatting, laughing mercenaries tore through the feast steaming on the long table. They hardly noticed the satyrs until their captain did.

 

     Evan rose from his seat at the head of the table and pointed directly at Itchy. “What did I tell you before? That’s it, you’re going straight to the dungeon!” he bellowed.

 

     Ginger and Tomato flinched at his booming voice, echoing off the vaulted ceilings above. Only then did Evan notice them: Tomato, cowering behind Itchy while Ginger sat in the cart with the jugs, slowly removing her fur hat. She was so bundled up, he’d mistaken her for a pile of furs.

 

     The captain’s posture loosened ever so slightly, the aggression on his face taming. His crew fell silent, watching the scene with anxious eyes.

 

     Itchy raised his hands and explained, “I know, I know. I said I wouldn’t come around no more. But listen,” he gestured towards Ginger with one hand, clamped his other on Tomato’s shoulder, “me ‘n my family, we just found ourselves in a bind. We got another kid on the way, see, but not even enough gold to carry the three of us through the year…”

 

     Ginger batted her lashes at the captain, caressing her belly with a sad pout. Tomato shivered by Itchy’s side as the satyr continued, “Like it or not, I gotta provide for my family the only way I know how. I came down here because I’ve known you a long time, Captain, and I know you got a heart _somewhere_ in that big, mighty chest of yours. Uh, nice shirt by the way. You look good in blue, anyone ever tell you that?”

 

     He briefly pointed towards the captain’s torso, then glanced up at his face. Evan’s expression was subtle, analytical, hard to read. Itchy began to sweat. Maybe this wouldn’t work after all.

 

     Then Ginger spoke, voice soft and sweet, “Please, Mr. Atlas, don’t take my dear husband. Our house is so very cold and we’re so very hungry. I’m afraid if things get any more dire, I…” She blinked several times, sniffling as her eyes began to glisten. She looked down at her belly and finished, “I just can’t bear to think about it…”

 

     Itchy’s ears perked up when he saw Evan’s face finally change. His brows lifted, shoulders sinking as he looked upon the pregnant satyress. He was wearing down, but he still wasn’t convinced. So Itchy gave Tomato’s shoulder a discreet little squeeze.

 

     Immediately, the boy coughed into his scarf and croaked, “Mommy? When will the owie in my tummy stop?”

“I told you, sweetheart,” Ginger began solemnly, “we just can’t afford your medicine right now. Try to be tough, okay? Mommy and Daddy will get it soon.”

 

     The mercenaries began to murmur at the table. Evan glanced back at them, found some of them shooting him dirty looks.

 

     Itchy said, “Sorry about that, Captain. Boy’s just got a little bug. Anyway, I know I shouldn’t be sellin’ this old swill, but can ya find it in your heart to look passed it just this once? Your guys are my best customers, you know. Half the meals my family eats comes from you fine folks here.”

 

     Evan opened his mouth to speak. Then he closed it and sighed through his nostrils, shaking his head as if in thought. He stared at the ground for a long moment, until Lukas called from the table, “They’re swindlers, Evan. Come on, don’t fall for this garbage!”

 

     “Shut your mouth, Luke! God, you’re a jerk!” said Alaine, pitching an apple at the archer. He narrowly blocked it with his elbow and it bounced into his bowl, splashing hot soup onto his tunic. Lukas picked up an egg to retaliate, but Jeimos seized his wrist and shook their head disapprovingly.

 

     Lukas set the egg down with a sigh as Isaac turned to Evan, said, “A Good Guy always helps those in need. Right? Isn’t that the first rule?”

“They’re not in need! They’re scammers!” Lukas argued. He swept his hand towards Itchy and went on, “That one scammed his way around Taybiya for years before he scurried up here like a little cockroach!”

 

     Glenvar blurted, “And what did his wife ‘n kid have to do with that? Nothin’, that’s what! Look at her, she’s pregnant as the _Halostira_!” He pointed his spoon towards Ginger.

 

     “I hate the slimy bastard as much as you do, Lukas,” said Balthazaar. “But Ginger is a sweet woman and a good friend of Feredil’s. My wife would never keep bad company.”

 

     Tomato clung to Itchy’s coat as the mercenaries bickered back and forth. He looked around, smirked and giggled to himself when he noticed Elska was absent.

 

     All the while, Evan stood before the satyrs with his hands firmly on his hips, still staring at the floor as he made his decision.

 

     “Do you guys hear yourselves completely betraying your captain?” cried Lukas, standing up from his seat. He ripped the napkin out of his neckline and threw it to the table, storming off in a huff.

 

     “All this fake pity for these fake people, when all you really want is booze, you drunks! Bunch of barbarians, I swear…” His voice trailed off as he disappeared out the door, making a point to bump into Itchy on the way.

 

     Evan watched him go with a frown. He then let out a heavy sigh, scrubbing his fingers against his eyes. When he opened them, he saw the satyr family looking back at him: a sickly child, a very pregnant mother, and a wayward father with a cart full of illicit alcohol.

 

     “Luke’s right,” piped Glenvar, opening his satchel. “I’m a drunk and I want some booze. How much for a jug, Itchy?”

The satyr’s ears perked up. “Uh…” He turned to Ginger, who simply shrugged back. So he cleared his throat and decided, “A hundred GP, my good man.”

 

     “ _A hundred_?” Glenvar exclaimed. “How do ya get off chargin’ _that_?”

Itchy gestured vaguely as he meandered around an explanation, “Well, see, uh…there’s materials, right? And they cost a lot more in winter, y’know, ‘cause the delivery horses keep breakin’ their legs on the ice…”

 

     “It’s so hard to make ends meet these days,” Ginger added somberly. “I’ve been too sick to hold classes lately. Poor Itchy works so hard to keep us fed and clothed, and he’s been doing it all on his own.”

 

     Itchy told the crew, “But hey, look…you guys are loyal customers of mine, so maybe I can cut you a deal. How does a whoppin’ half-off sound?” He patted one of the jugs. “Fifty GP and this stuff is yours. But you gotta be quick, ‘cause it’s a limited time offer and I won’t have another batch for months! Only three jugs left and they’re gonna go fast!”

 

     Murmurs spread around the table once again. Glenvar dug through his satchel, frowned with disappointment as he muttered, “Aww shite. Can ya do it fer thirty?”

 

     Itchy was about to speak, but Evan interrupted him.

“Wait,” said the captain, digging through his pocket. He counted out 150GP in coins, then offered them to the satyr. “I’ll take them all.”

 

     Murmurs spread over the table once again. “Are you serious?” cried Javaan. “After all the grief you gave us last time?”

Evan explained, “Oh, don’t think for a second I’m drinking that poison! I’m pouring it all right into the cesspit where it belongs. Better it be there than in your guts.”

 

     The crew broke out into a round of groans and gripes. Meanwhile, Itchy happily swiped the coins. He set the jugs on the floor, said, “I don’t care what you do with it, Captain. My family’s fed and that’s all that matters to me!” He extended his hand for a shake. “Thanks. You’re a good man.”

 

     “Good _Guy_ ,” Evan teased with a weary smile, accepting the handshake.

 

     The satyrs waved goodbye as they left, thanking the captain profusely until they were out the door. Once they passed the gate, Itchy’s shoulders sank as he sighed with relief. “Oh man,” he wheezed. “For a minute there, I thought he was gonna throw me in the slammer…”

 

     He rustled Tomato’s hair and leaned forward to kiss Ginger’s cheek. “You guys are somethin’ else. How do you just turn on the tears like that? It’s amazing!”

Ginger chuckled, “Just an old trick my mother taught me.”

“My mom taught me too!” declared Tomato.

 

     “Ah, so _that’s_ where you get it,” Itchy grinned at the boy. “Couple of nasty degenerates, you two! That captain’s heart was clay in your hands.”

 

     “Well, I just can’t bring myself to feel bad,” Ginger explained with a wrinkle of her nose. “I can’t stand that man! He strolls around the village like he owns it. Not to mention the way he bullies you! Always snooping around our property looking for reasons to hassle you, it’s just ridiculous…”

 

     Itchy replied flippantly, “But he always backs off when I bring you guys into the picture. Scurries home with his tail between his legs like the nosy old hound he is. I _knew_ he’d cave if I just brought you along, and what do ya know?” He shook his satchel, coins jingling inside. “You should come shine-hockin’ with me more often!”

 

     “Yeah!” Tomato agreed excitedly.

But Ginger told him, “Now, Itchy, let’s not make a habit of this. You shouldn’t be selling this stuff in the first place! It’s only a matter of time before we catch Atlas on a bad day. _Please_ don’t make me explain to our daughter why her daddy’s in jail…”

 

     “Trust me, lassie, I don’t wanna grow old doin’ this shit,” said Itchy.

“Language.”

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat and continued, “What I’m tryin’ to say is, this shady stuff won’t cut it anymore. I’m gonna find something else to do. I just…need a little time to figure it out, that’s all.”

 

     He slipped his satchel off his shoulder and placed it in Ginger’s lap. “In the meantime, please hide this from me.”

 

*


	3. A Visible Kind of Sick

### [CHAPTER 3: A VISIBLE KIND OF SICK]

 

     _LATE WINTER, 6006_

 

     When Ginger turned her head, Itchy scraped food from his plate onto hers. All through winter, he shrank while she grew, belly like a heavy globe beneath her skin.

 

     The baby was due any day, he was sure of it. And as every day went on, he grew more and more anxious, bouncing his leg at dinner and randomly sweating despite the cold.

 

     Cold it was, and relentlessly so. Every night, it snowed. Every morning, they heard Olof clomping down the road with his plow. Every evening, Itchy would climb onto the roof to push the snow away.

 

     The isanae had grown brazen, strutting around the village in groups to freeze everything they touched, for they knew they had won the season.

 

     The villagers couldn’t wait for the sun to return and chase them away. Until then, all they could do was submit to nature and try to survive.

 

     This morning, simply by chance, Itchy saw a rabbit in the garden and managed to pelt it with a rock. Now it boiled in a pot over the fireplace as Ginger and Tomato gathered at the table.

 

     “This is wonderful! I haven’t had meat in a long time,” Ginger remarked brightly.

Itchy set a bowl of rabbit stew before her and winked. “A couple days ain’t _that_ long,” he said.

“Stop that,” the satyress hissed, slapping at his arm as he passed.

Tomato tilted his head. “You got meat? I wanted some! Why didn’t you share it with me?”

 

     Itchy let out a hearty laugh, slipping into the seat beside Ginger. Ginger sighed, “Nevermind, dear...Just clean your plate. We may not have it again until spring, at least.”

 

     “Hey Ginj, what kind of bird is that?” asked Itchy, pointing towards the window. She turned her head, then he poured some of his soup into her bowl. He winked at Tomato and the boy nodded back.

 

     “Bird? I don’t see a bird out there. Where?” Ginger queried.

“Aw, just missed it,” Itchy mumbled over his spoon.

 

     “You and your birds…” Ginger shook her head, lifting her bowl to her lips. She took a long drink of broth. Then suddenly, she jerked and sputtered. The bowl fell to the table, splashing across its surface. Itchy and Tomato quickly stood up as Ginger hunched over, clutching her belly.

 

     “Mom, what’s wrong?” Tomato quivered anxiously.

“Nothing, darling,” his mother assured him quickly. “Only another cramp. I…I just need to walk it off.” She stood up and slowly paced across the room.

 

     With hesitation, Itchy and Tomato sunk back into their chairs. They watched her warily, every step she took like an ominous drum rattling Itchy’s nerves.

 

     Tomato returned to his meal but Itchy simply couldn’t. Not with his throat closed up and his stomach turning.

 

     The ridge of hair on his back stood on end. Normally his senses were dulled by the haze of alcohol, but he hadn’t had a drop in months. He could sense now that something wasn’t quite right.

 

     Ginger suffered cramps every day. That was nothing new. But the gush of liquid that suddenly splattered on the floorboards certainly was.

Tomato pointed and giggled, “Mom peed herself!”

“Oh, Itchy!” his mother gasped. “I think it’s time!”

 

     Itchy nearly knocked the table over as he shot up from his seat, rushing to her side. Tomato cocked his head and queried, “Time for what?”

Ginger was about to answer when another cramp gnashed her teeth shut, doubled her over like a folded cloth.

 

     Itchy told him, “She’s havin’ the baby!”

Tomato’s eyes bugged. “Oh no! W-what do we do?”

“We gotta get her to the clinic,” the older satyr answered, and attempted to lift Ginger. He groaned and strained, knees wobbling. She’d simply become too fat.

 

     “Itchy, put me down! You’re going to hurt yourself!” she cried. At last he relented, guiding her into a chair instead.

After a brief moment of thought, he snagged his cloak off the wall. “Keep an eye on her, kid,” he told Tomato. “I’ll be right back!” And then he bolted out the door, still pulling the cloak on as he sprinted across the yard.

 

     Tomato approached his mother and hugged her arm. “Are you gonna be okay?” he asked.

Ginger sucked in a deep breath, forced a smile and spoke through gritted teeth. “Yes, sweetheart. Don’t be frightened! You’re going to—to meet your little sister soon!”

 

     The boy looked towards the window and asked, “Where did Mr. Itchy go?”

“I…” Ginger began, then sighed, “I don’t know. B-but he’ll be back soon, I’m sure of it!”

 

     So she said, she hoped, she prayed, for in the back of her mind she wondered if she would ever see him again.

 

*

 

     Itchy sprinted to Olof’s house just a short distance down the path. He pounded his fist on the door and called, “Olof! Olof, we need help! Please!”

 

     There was no answer. He peeked in the window and saw no light. With a string of curses, Itchy rounded the side of the big boxy longhouse, where tools and lumber were stored beneath a lean-to. A cart was parked here, but it was stacked with bales of hay that were too heavy to move.

 

     So Itchy turned his attention to the plow sitting beside it. It was a simple curved device of wood and iron with small wheels on the back. Itchy looped its harness over his shoulder and grabbed the handles, quickly wheeling it down the path. Olof had plowed the village’s main roads today, but he neglected Itchy’s secret trail to his still.

 

     The satyr arrived at the end of that trail and affixed the harness around his chest. Straining and groaning and gnashing his teeth all the while, he dragged the plow through slowly but surely.

 

     The piercing eyes of isanae peered at him from the dark forest. They scowled and murmured their displeasure, that this lowly villager was undoing all their hard work. They labored for days to make the ground so cold and glittery, to drive their limniad sisters underground and claim the forest for their own!

 

     But Itchy cared not for the nymphs’ drama. He thought only of his family as he forced himself along, ignored the pain in his muscles and the quake in his knees.

 

     At last, after what felt like an eternity, he reached his moonshine operation. Wrenching the harness off his body, he dumped the pile of snow out of his cart and rushed it down the smooth, clear path he’d made.

 

     The isanae grumbled around him. Once he was out of sight, they crept out of the woods and danced gracefully on the trail. Every footstep left an icy print behind.

 

     Itchy parked the cart on Ginger’s porch, panting heavily as he burst through the door. Ginger was still sitting where he’d left her, Tomato holding her hand as he dabbed her forehead with a rag.

 

     “Co…come on…” Itchy wheezed, sweeping his arm towards the cart. He helped Ginger to her feet, surprised when she pulled him into a kiss. He closed his eyes and leaned into it. But the moment was short-lived, for she then let out a wail and nearly collapsed.

 

     With the help of her lover and her son, she made it into the cart. Tomato swiped all the blankets from the bed and tossed them in with her. “Okay,” panted Itchy, carefully wheeling the cart off the porch. “We got this. It’s not far. Hold on!”

 

     The last shred of daylight had disappeared, but a satyr’s eyes were not so pathetic in darkness like the humans or the roshava. Itchy had no trouble navigating his way down the road, Tomato running ahead to clear any branches that lie across it.

 

     Ginger let out another screech. Its frequency shattered great icicles from the treetops and they came crashing down, exploding around the satyrs like cold shrapnel.

 

     Itchy dug his hooves into the soil, stopping the cart to narrowly avoid a falling chunk. Ginger yelped as she slid forward and nearly fell out of the cart, but Tomato was there to catch her. Itchy turned to the forest beside them, where dozens of blue eyes glared at him through the darkness.

 

     “Piss off, ya frigid bitches! Leave us alone!” he growled. He pitched a rock into the trees and all at once, the eyes scattered in a flurry of unearthly giggles.

“Yeah! Bitches!” Tomato spat, throwing another stone.

Ginger scolded them through her teeth, “Language!” and the two apologized before continuing on their way.

 

     In just a few minutes, they arrived at the clinic. Ginger remained in the cart while Itchy nearly broke the door off its hinges.

He stumbled inside and cried, “My lady’s havin’ a baby! Che! Get out here!”

 

     He made a beeline for the examination room door, but someone snagged him by the wrist. He turned and saw Lukas, one of Evan’s crewmen, glowering down at him.

 

     Lukas pushed him away from the door and said, “The doctor’s busy removing Glen’s appendix. I don’t know exactly what happened, but if it had something to do with your stupid moonshine, I wouldn’t be surprised!”

 

     Itchy’s furry ears drooped. “But we need help!” he exclaimed, pointing towards the door. “The baby’s coming _now_! W-what are we supposed to do?”

 

     In that moment, the door to the exam room opened. Itchy’s head snapped towards Tojum, peeking out with a furrowed brow.

“What are ye yellings about outs here?” she hissed. “Ye haves to be quiet! Doctor doings delicate surgery!”

 

     Itchy dropped to his knees before the little kobold and pleaded, “Toejam, please! Ginger’s havin’ her baby as we speak and I don’t know what to do! We need help!”

 

     “My names is _Tojum_!” she corrected him sharply. “And ye not needs waste doctor’s times for this! Goes home and tells her to squats over pillow. Breathe lots, push hard, and cleans baby. Easy!”

 

     The satyr cocked his head. “Wait. Really? Are you sure? I mean, w-what if there’s a problem?”

“If there is problems,” Tojum began impatiently, “then comes see doctor about problems! Not comes before problem even happens and waste valuable times! Dr. Che very busy. Go now, takes care of Ginger!”

 

     With that, the kobold disappeared behind the door. Itchy reached out to her, but it was too late. After a deep breath, he rose to his hooves and headed for the exit.

 

     “Hey,” called a voice from behind. Itchy turned, saw Lukas looking at him from one of the lobby chairs. “Good luck,” said the mercenary. Itchy shot him a simple nod and left.

 

*

 

     “Tommy, grab the pillows off the bed and put ‘em here, right on the floor,” Itchy told the boy, pointing to a spot near the fireplace. “Get a fire goin’ too.”

 

     Tomato obeyed, lying pillows on the floor, then Itchy guided his mother to squat above them.

“The nurse said to do it like this,” he explained breathlessly. He sat on his knees behind her, holding her upright. “Doesn’t seem right to me, but what in the world do I know?”

 

     “No, I-I think she’s right,” Ginger grunted. “My mother said—said something about this! Let gravity…do the work…!” She closed her eyes tight, stifling a loud groan behind her lips. Tomato stood by, watching curiously.

 

     “Where is my sister?” the boy asked. “Are you pooping her out?”

Ginger couldn’t help but laugh, though it was cut short by another painful contraction. Her wail echoed off he ceiling and her men flinched, drawing their ears back as if it pained them.

 

     “Nah, she’s gonna come out through the meat sleeve,” Itchy told him.

Ginger growled, “Itchy!” and jammed her elbow into his ribs.

“Meat sleeve? Where’s that?” asked Tomato.

Itchy grinned. “Just watch ‘n find out! You’re witnessing the miracle of life, kiddo!”

 

     The little satyr furrowed his red brows. “Is this how I was born?”

“Yep! Well, kinda,” replied Itchy. He waited for another wail to pass, then went on, “Ginger had you at the clinic. Che wasn’t near as busy back then. I mean, I wasn’t there, but he probably just reached in and yanked you out by your little ears.”

 

     “Really?” Tomato’s brows and ears shot up simultaneously.

“That’s not what happened,” Ginger croaked, red in the face.

“Heh, just kiddin’.” Itchy kissed the side of her face, locked his arms around her middle. He said, “You gotta breathe, Ginj! In deep, out slow! You got it!”

 

     The satyress took in a deep, shuddering breath. Itchy flinched when it came back out as a scream.

“Mom, you’re bleeding!” Tomato gasped. He clutched at his hair, bouncing as he panicked, “Mr. Itchy, there’s lots of blood! What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

 

     Itchy barked, “Nothing’s wrong! If you’re gonna freak out, then go wait outside!” He peeked around Ginger’s shoulder, then kissed her cheek and told her, “I think she’s comin’, Ginj! You’re alright, keep doin’ what you’re doin’!”

 

     Tomato argued, “But it’s cold outside! And I wanna see how the baby gets born! I’m not gonna freak out. I’m tough!” That said, the boy lowered his head and caught a glimpse of his crowning sister. His eyes rolled back and he promptly collapsed on his face.

 

     “Oh, Tomato!” Ginger gasped.

Itchy quickly assured her, “He’s fine, lassie! Kid’s a little blood-shy, that’s all. Come on now, push! That nurse said you gotta _push_!”

“I’m trying, I’m trying, you asshole!” she growled back. Her face nearly matched her hair.

 

     She quivered in his arms as she shouted. He felt her muscles strain, told her, “Let it out, Ginj! Whatever you wanna yell about, now’s your chance! No consequences!”

 

     The satyress loudly panted in his arms. She pushed once more and shouted as she did, “I hate winter and I hate isanae! I hate those god damned frosty floozies so much! They ruin everything!”

 

     “Yeah, preach it!” Itchy grinned.

“I hate that blowhard mercenary captain too! Oh, I just want to—to ram my horns right in his groin!”

Itchy laughed, “Me too!”

Ginger pushed yet again, growling through clenched teeth, “And that nasty elfenne at the market, I can’t stand her!”

“Ugh, Gwyneth’s the worst!”

 

     “And you,” Ginger panted, “I hate you for this! _You_ did this to me!”

The satyr blinked. “Er, okay! Fair enough!”

“You should’ve pulled out, you bastard!”

“Hey, come on, you said you were too old anyway!”

“Well, what do I know? Do I look like a damn doctor to you?” Ginger wailed.

 

     Tomato blinked his bleary eyes, softly groaning as he lifted his head off the floor. The moment the world came into focus, he saw meat and blood gush from his mother and immediately fainted again. He hit the floor with a thud, but the baby girl hit the pillow without a sound.

 

     “Oh! There she is! Ginj, you did it!” Itchy announced excitedly. Carefully he lowered the satyress down. She lay back on the pillows, panting as if she’d run ten marathons. Itchy scrambled around her and kneeled before the wriggling baby, all coated in slime.

 

     He looked this way and that, found no knife or shears in his reach. They were in the kitchen area, probably not clean anyway. So without patience, he bit the umbilical cord off and lifted the baby into his arms.

 

     “You were right,” he told Ginger with a wide smile. “She’s a girl!”

Ginger mumbled something in response, wearily raking a hand over her head. Itchy looked back at the baby. She was a tiny thing, all ruddy with curly dark hair lying lank against her head. She wriggled, but she didn’t make a sound.

 

     The ridge on Itchy’s back stood on end. Something wasn’t right.

 

     He dragged his palm over her face, wiped away some ooze. She was struggling to breathe, he realized, for her airways were clogged with fluid. The satyr’s heart dropped into his stomach, threatened to rip through his guts and hit the floor.

 

     What to do? How to fix it? He snapped his head towards Ginger, still catching her breath just beside him.

 

     She had no idea what was happening. And she would never have to, he hoped, as he sealed his mouth over the baby’s face. He sucked the fluid from her throat and spit it onto the floor, then quickly moved in to do the same to her nose.

 

     Tomato regained consciousness just then. He witnessed Itchy spitting out blood he’d sucked from an infant’s face and promptly fainted a third time.

 

     At last, the baby began to whimper. The sound was like sweet music to Itchy’s ears. His shoulders sank as he let out a heavy sigh of relief, swiping a rag to clean the rest of her.

 

     “Tommy,” he called, nudging the boy with his hoof. “Hey, Tommy! Tomato, wake up!”

Tomato suddenly jolted back to life, eyes wide and eager. Itchy tipped his head towards the metal bucket sitting near the door and said, “Heat up some water, will ya?”

 

     The boy nodded and set to work, briefly disappearing outside to scoop snow into the bucket. He threw some more sticks in the fireplace and placed the bucket on the rack.

 

     Meanwhile, Itchy introduced Ginger to her daughter, propping the satyress up in his lap as she held their newborn child.

 

     “Oh my goodness, look at her!” Ginger said weakly, wearing a tired but adoring smile. “Itchy, she’s so beautiful!”

Cautiously curious, Tomato made his way over to look upon his baby sister. “Is that her?” he asked, eyes flicking up to meet his mother’s.

 

     Ginger smiled, replied, “Yes, Tomato. Say ‘hello’ to your little sister!”

Tomato looked down at the whimpering newborn, all slimy and red and wrinkled as a prune. He made a face and said, “She’s kind of ugly.”

Ginger chuckled, “All babies are kind of ugly at first.”

 

     “Was I ugly?” he asked.

Ginger hesitated. “Well…”

“Ya sure were,” Itchy told him. “Looked like a weird little pumpkin for weeks!”

“Itchy!” the satyress nudged him.

 

     When the water was warm enough, Itchy dunked a rag into the bucket and washed the baby. Meanwhile Tomato placed several pots of snow on the fireplace rack to prepare his mother’s bath.

 

     Free of ooze, the baby girl showed her true colors. Her hair wasn’t exactly like Itchy’s. It had a dark reddish tint like old rust, her complexion lying somewhere between Itchy’s brown and Ginger’s beige. She did not have freckles all over like her mother and brother did, but rather, a few sparse spots on her shoulders.

 

     Itchy carefully dried her, never once noticing that he’d just been elbow-deep in loathsome water for the last fifteen minutes. He was too mesmerized by the little piece of him he held in his arms. Ginger lowered herself into the tub of shallow water.

 

     Tomato helped her wash as Itchy brought the newborn back to her and asked, “Well…you got any names in mind?”

 

     Ginger raised her brows. “Oh, I…I haven’t thought too much about it, honestly.”

“I’m thinking _Itchy Jr_.”

“I’m thinking not,” Ginger told him, then fell deep into thought. Silence passed.

 

     Then Tomato suggested, “I know! What about Cinnamon?”

Ginger and Itchy looked at one another. They both began to laugh.

“I think that’s perfect,” said Ginger, glancing up at Itchy. “What do you think?”

He shrugged. “You seem just as crazy about her, so why not?”

 

     A couple hours later, Tomato managed to beckon Che to the house for a quick visit. The doctor performed minor stitching on Ginger, and once she was deemed healthy, he examined the baby.

 

     The satyr family stood by anxiously, watching as he moved her limbs, pulled back her eyelids, and looked into her ears.

 

     “She’s rather quiet,” Ginger whispered to Itchy. “Didn’t Tomato cry more?”

“Pff, kid screamed like an eagle,” he muttered.

 

     Finally, Che turned to them with a little smile, said, “I think she is strong baby.” He lifted Cinnamon off the table and handed her back to Ginger, sitting in a chair. He went on, “Now, her eyes, eh…” Not knowing the word, he crossed his own eyes and fingers to demonstrate. “Like this. But not hurt her! Maybe fix by itself later.”

 

     Itchy asked quickly, “Wait, wait, what do you mean? Is she blind?”

“Eh…” Che waved his hand, reluctant to answer. “No. I mean, yes? I show you!” He plucked a wooden stick from his pocket and held it about an arm’s length from Cinnamon’s face. When he waved it back and forth, she paid it no mind.

 

     “She not see it,” he explained, then moved it closer and waved it once more. The baby’s steel-gray eyes, crooked as they were, followed the stick. “But now she see it! I think is fine. Will not kill.”

 

     Then Che stroked her furry ear and added, “Another thing I find: ears very, eh… _quiet_.”

Ginger’s eyes rounded. “My baby’s deaf?” she blurted.

“No, no! Eh…yes? I show you!” Che turned to the baby and whistled. He then walked to her other side and whistled there. Neither time did she react.

 

     “Now watch,” he said, leaning in just inches from her ear. This time when he whistled, her ears twitched and she gurgled. Her parents looked on, dumbfounded.

 

     “Again, not kill,” Che told them. “She have strong heart and muscle! Lungs sound good! Will walk very soon. Be fast like rabbit.”

 

     “Oh my goodness…” Ginger muttered quietly.

Brows sagged above wide eyes, Tomato stepped forward and queried, “Dr. Che, is my sister sick?”

 

     The doctor waved a dismissive hand, replied flippantly, “I am doctor long time. What I learn is: everyone sick. Sometimes in body, sometimes in mind. Sometimes they not know. They not see me unless they see the sick.” He gestured to the baby. “Her sick show itself. That is all.”

 

     He patted Cinnamon’s head and added, “You must show her many colors and talk to her ear. Feed her much healthy foods. Most important,” he raised a finger, “you must _love_ her. Do this, and she will be happy person.”

 

     Che closed the door behind him, leaving the family in silence. What to say? How to feel? Nobody was sure quite yet.

 

     Itchy cleared his throat. “Y’know,” he began, “I’ve created a lot of misery in my life. But I’ve created a lot of good things too. I grow good crops, I bake good bread, I brew a damn mean shine…”

 

     He plucked the baby from Ginger’s arms and kissed her forehead. He went on with a wide grin, “This? This is the best thing I ever made. I ain’t never made anything so perfect in my life! Look at her!”

 

     “You didn’t make her! _Mom_ did!” Tomato said, pointing an accusatory finger.

Ginger simply giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hands.

“It takes two, kiddo,” Itchy told the boy. After a pause, he nudged Ginger and added, “Gonna take two to raise her right too.”

 

*


	4. Catching Flies

### [CHAPTER 4: CATCHING FLIES]

 

     _EARLY SPRING, 6006_

 

     At long last, sunshine warmed the soil and the isanae fled for the icy peaks of Frostbite Crag. They took their frost with them, and now the limniads were free to paint the land green once again.

 

     As the oldest limniad in the Forest of Refuge, Flora led the charge. Her slim green hand reached upward until she felt air above. Scoop by scoop, she dug her way out of the ground and shook the dirt from her long, pink hair. She yawned and groaned, stretched her body this way and that.

 

     “Wake up, ladies! We have work to do!” she called. Her voice carried through the forest on breezes and birdsongs, waking the other nymphs from their long slumbers.

 

     Gradually they dug their way up like a horde of floral zombies rising from the dead. The air filled with their melodic songs as they sang and twirled over the village.

 

     Everywhere they stepped, color and life returned to the dormant grasses. Flora walked through Drifter’s Hollow to greet her neighbors after her long absence.

 

     She waved at Gwyneth and Brogan at the market, peeked into the clinic to greet Che, saw Olof supervising Tomato and Frederick as they played in his yard.

 

     She glanced through Ginger’s window, saw the satyress busily doing chores and decided not to disturb her just now. She’d counted every head in the village but one, so she headed for Itchy’s secret still operation. Not a secret to her, of course, for she knew every nook and cranny of this forest.

 

     And though the peoples were not her responsibility, she couldn’t deny that she’d fallen in love with them over the generations. Unlike most of her sisters, she interacted with the villagers daily and concerned herself with their short little lives. She was in too deep now, unable to let them go.

 

     She found Itchy right where she expected him to be: pounding moonshine mash by the old log. She was about to greet him, then she noticed something odd.

 

     To Itchy’s left was an infant satyr. A length of twine was wrapped diagonally around her torso, the other end tethered to a tree trunk. The baby babbled as she crawled around, only as far as the twine would allow.

 

     “Mother Gaia, what is going on here?” Flora blurted. She rushed into the clearing and shoved the satyr on his back, pointing to the child. “In all my years, Itchy, I never thought you’d stoop so low as to _kidnap a child_! What is wrong with you?”

 

     A look of bafflement crossed Itchy’s face. He righted himself to a sitting position and barked, “I didn’t kidnap shit!” He flinched, glancing back at the baby. “I mean, I didn’t kidnap anyone! Nobody told you?”

 

     He slipped the loop of twine off the baby and picked her up. “This is my daughter, Cinnamon! She’ll be a whole month old tomorrow. Won’t ya, kiddo?” He grinned and nuzzled Cinnamon’s nose. The baby squealed and grabbed his beard.

 

     Flora’s jaw dropped. Her green eyes flicked between the satyr and the baby for some time. “Your daughter,” she repeated breathlessly. “You’re joking…”

“If ya don’t believe me, come look at her! We got the same cheeks. She’s got Ginger’s nose—thank you, merciful Karenza—and some of her freckles, see?”

 

     Flora padded towards him, tiny daisies sprouting in her wake. “I leave for a measly season and a half, and you suddenly become a father!”

 

     She looked down at the baby in his arms and cocked her head. “Her eyes are crossed,” she mentioned. Her tone was accusatory when she asked, “What’s wrong with her? What did you do?”

 

     “Ain’t nothin’ _wrong_ with her!” Itchy exclaimed, squeezing Cinnamon closer. “I don’t do nothin’ to her except spoil her rotten! I love this kid. She’s got character.”

 

     “Well,” Flora began, smiling down at the child, “she does seem happy. Look at your smile, little one! Aren’t you just precious?”

 

     The nymph’s grin faded, feeling rejected. Cinnamon seemed to ignore her completely.

“She can’t hear ya unless you talk in her ear,” Itchy mentioned.

So Flora lifted the baby out of his arms and pressed her pink lips to her face, peppering her with kisses. She then sang a little tune in Cinnamon’s furry ear.

 

     Cinnamon laughed and squealed with delight. Flora giggled too until the baby swatted her in the eye, then she recoiled and handed her back to Itchy.

 

     “Congratulations, Itchy. She’s the best thing you’ve ever done with yourself,” Flora told him.

The satyr raised his brows. “That’s what _I’m_ sayin’!”

“So, why isn’t she at home? I recall you didn’t like Tomato hanging around your still.”

 

     “Ah, Tommy’s a good kid, but…” Itchy began, setting Cinnamon back in the grass. He turned back to his mash and explained, “Ginger didn’t want me around him much when he was little. Said I was a ‘bad influence’.”

 

     He shrugged. “Can’t argue with that. But Cinnamon’s _mine_ , see? By blood ‘n everything! As her father, I’m entitled to screw her up.”

 

     Flora shot him a disapproving look. Itchy raised his palms, chuckled, “Kidding, kidding! Jokes!” He nodded towards his child and continued, “I’m doing my best for her, better than I ever done. I haven’t had a drop of booze since last winter started, you know that? Captain Fatlas is goin’ nuts—he can’t hassle me for _nothin’_!”

 

     The nymph’s green gaze flicked towards the mash. “Oh? Then what’s all this?” she queried.

“This,” he explained, “is the last bath of ‘shine I’ll ever make. Once it’s sold off, I’m gonna shut all this crap down and make myself a real, legitimate livin’.”

 

     “Good for you!” Flora smiled. “Doing what, exactly?”

Itchy swiped at his neck. He hesitated, then answered, “Don’t tell Ginger this, but I, uh…I don’t know yet.”

 

*

 

     When his work at the still was done, Itchy loaded Cinnamon into his cart and pushed it to the village proper. The baby slid back and forth as he weaved in squiggles down the road. She shrieked with laughter and he laughed with her, shouting, “Uh-oh! Earthquake!” before driving the right wheels over the edge of the path.

 

     The cart bounced on the uneven grass, Cinnamon flailing and laughing despite the disapproving glares from villagers.

“Enough with that, ya dumb bastard!” Brogan shouted at Itchy from the market. “Yer gonna give the babe brain damage!”

 

     Itchy pushed the cart up to him and smirked. “Yeah? Speaking from experience?” he teased. Brogan snorted with fury. He raised his balled fist, then glanced at the baby in the cart and slowly lowered it.

 

     “I hate yer guts,” Brogan grumbled to Itchy, and settled for simply shoving him.

Itchy reached into his satchel and shook a little sack of coins before him. “Is that any way to treat a payin’ customer?”

“Just shut up ‘n get what ya need,” Brogan told him. “But don’t pull no tricks! I’ll be watchin’ ya like a hawk.”

 

     With Cinnamon in Itchy’s care during the day, Ginger was free to teach her classes again. She’d given him some of her gold earlier for groceries. “And nothing else!” she told him. Resources were still tight, goods still terribly overpriced as the village recovered from a harsh winter.

 

     Still, Itchy couldn’t resist when he saw a display of lollipops. They were big red discs with white swirls, probably made of pure sugar. By no means were they a necessity, but he grabbed two of them anyway.

 

     Now Cinnamon was sharing the cart with sacks of grain and salt, jars and bottles, produce, and a bag of smoked meat.

 

     Itchy brought it all to Gwyneth’s counter and said, “Be a sweetheart and draw me up a receipt, huh?”

Gwyneth began tallying the order on her notebook. “Why? So your wife knows you didn’t blow her gold on whores and booze?” she asked bluntly.

 

     Itchy tapped the end of her long nose and replied as if he were talking to a toddler, “That’s _exactly_ why, you clever fox, you! When did you get so smart, Gwynny?”

 

     The elfenne wrinkled her nose, slapping the receipt against his forehead where it stuck. “Don’t get lost on your way home, jackass,” she told him, then turned to another customer.

 

     Itchy plucked the paper from his head and tossed it in the cart with his groceries. Cinnamon lie propped up against a sack of grain, chewing on her fist.

 

     Itchy pulled the thin layer of wax paper off one of the lollipops and handed it to her. “Here ya go, kid. That’s for sparin’ me a punch in the face today,” he said, and then they headed back home. Cinnamon murmured over the lollipop, holding it by its candy disc.

 

     About half-way home, Itchy heard the rapid clip-clopping of hooves behind him. He turned around just as Olof’s son, Frederick, plowed into him. The satyr hit the ground with a grunt.

 

     “Is that a lolly? Can I have one?” the boy asked, clambering around the cart to look inside. He’d grown a lot since his days as a starving babe, now heavy and rotund like an iron pot. At only ten years old, he nearly tripled Itchy in weight.

 

     Itchy picked himself off the ground and barked, “No, you can’t! They’re for my kids, not you!”

“I want a lolly!” The young centaur demanded, stamping his hoof.

“Well, what are you tellin’ me for? Go bug your dad about it!”

“My dad’s stupid! Dr. Che said I was too fat and now he won’t let me have candy anymore.”

 

     “Tough break then, fatty. Go eat a carrot. Doctor’s orders,” Itchy told him, picking up the handles of his cart once more. He pushed forward several paces, then Frederick soon galloped ahead and blocked his path.

 

     “Gimme a sucker, now!” the boy demanded, ramming the cart with his belly. The sudden jostle startled Cinnamon and she began to cry, dropping her candy beside her.

 

     Itchy drew his ears back, baring his teeth when he growled, “You’ll get a _sucker_ -punch in the damn jaw if ya don’t get outta here!”

“Oh yeah? I’ll tell my dad you hit me and then you’ll be in big trouble!” Frederick told him, then he rammed the cart again.

“And _I’ll_ tell your dad what a little _shit_ you were today, how ‘bout that?” Itchy sneered.

 

     The two stared eachother down, glare to glare. Cinnamon whimpered in the cart between them, blindly searching for her lollipop. She couldn’t quite reach it, but Frederick could.

 

     The boy nearly knocked the cart over as he jumped onto it, his front equine legs hanging over the edge. Quickly he seized Cinnamon’s lollipop and then took off running.

 

     Itchy scrambled to catch the groceries that threatened to spill out. “ _Freddie_!” he screamed after the boy, but Frederick had already disappeared around the corner. With a string of curses he knew his daughter couldn’t hear anyway, Itchy unwrapped the second lollipop and handed it to her.

 

     Her fussing stopped immediately. For a moment, Itchy considered going back to the market to buy another. But the candy was already so expensive, gold so tight, that he decided against it and simply trudged home.

 

     When he arrived, he found Ginger and Tomato preparing the garden. They tilled the soil with sticks, working tirelessly by hand. After hauling the groceries into the house, he brought Cinnamon to her mother.

 

     “There you are,” the satyress greeted with a smile. She brushed her hands off and took the baby, still nibbling at the lollipop. “Oh, did you get treats?”

 

     “Do I get one?” blurted Tomato.

Itchy sighed, sweeping a hand towards the trail. “I dunno. Ask your little _friend,_ Freddie about that,” he grumbled. “Kid jumped me like a bandit when I was comin’ home. Stole the candy right outta my cart! Can you believe that? Olof needs to do somethin’ about that boy, he’s a menace!”

 

     Ginger furrowed her brow. “How awful! Frederick’s been on a terrible mean streak these last few years. I just don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“I know,” said Itchy. “His dad’s such a nice guy too! I hate even bringin’ it up; he’s so busy all the time. Must stress him out, raisin’ a devil like that.”

 

     “I hate bothering him too,” Ginger agreed. After a pause, she turned to Tomato and suggested, “Tomato, why don’t you go find Freddie and talk to him?”

The boy told her, “I don’t want to! I was at his house today and he kept hitting me, even after I told him to stop. He even hit his dad, and his dad wouldn’t do anything about it! He said I should just go home, so I did.”

 

     “And _there’s_ our problem,” groaned Itchy. Ginger took the lollipop from Cinnamon, who started to fuss until she replaced it with her breast. The baby suckled as her mother handed the candy to Tomato.

 

     “I’m sorry, darling,” she said. “Here. You’ve been working so hard in the garden. You can go play now if you want.”

The boy took the candy with a smile, and then he ran off into the house. Itchy picked up his stick and took his place tilling the soil.

 

     “We got nice kids,” he said.

Ginger chuckled, looking down at the babe suckling from her. “Don’t speak to soon…”

“You think I’ll screw her up, don’t you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“’Cause I might. I’ll apologize now, just in case.”

 

     Ginger laughed, “She’ll be fine, Itchy. You’ve been behaving so well lately, I’m very impressed! I can’t wait to see this surprise of yours. I’m sure it’s going to be wonderful.”

Itchy swiped at his neck. “Yeah,” he forced a chuckle, “it’s really somethin’. Totally legit too! You’ll see!”

 

     Despite all his progress, despite his sobriety and his façade of good behavior, Itchy still couldn’t claim perfection. He’d planted the seed of a lie weeks ago. As usual, he’d dug himself so deep that the surface threatened to collapse on him, growing heavier and heavier by the day.

 

     As far as Ginger knew, he was planning to surprise her with a new business operation. Something reliable and legitimate to replace his shady moonshining business.

 

     In reality, Itchy had absolutely nothing in mind. He only told her such a thing to calm her worries and stop the nagging.

 

     However, the moment he saw Frederick steal candy from a baby, he was hit with a sudden spark of inspiration. He thought about the logistics of his idea during his walk home, and now he pondered them harder while he tended the garden.

 

     When the sky grew dark and the air was chilly, the satyrs went back inside for dinner. The evening was like any other. Ginger placed Cinnamon in her crib and read a story with Tomato until the boy was asleep. Then she climbed down from the loft to meet Itchy in their bed below.

 

     She was sure they’d enjoy a night of passion together, but to her disappointment, he was already sleeping. Or so she thought. Once she herself had fallen asleep beside him, Itchy quietly crawled out of bed and crept out of the house.

 

     It was sometime in the middle of the night. Crickets chirped in the darkness. A breeze rustled the leaves. Otherwise the air was quiet, with no one awake to spot Itchy as he made his way to the mercenary compound. Cautiously he crept through the front gate, but tried to stay off the main path to the plaza.

 

     The windows in Lukas’ treehouse were still aglow, so Itchy crossed the street and cut through Evan’s dark pasture. Not even the cows saw him, locked away in their barn for the night. He reached the plaza, looking around for spying eyes before approaching the dining hall.

 

     The doors were shut and locked with a heavy iron padlock. But even such a weighty thing was no match for a simple hairpin and Itchy’s sketchy history. In less than a minute, the lock was picked and cast aside. Itchy quietly slipped into the dark hall, pulling a match from his satchel and striking it on his hoof.

 

     He lit a few candles on the wall, then set out to do what he came for. In the storage room was a bounty of ingredients—great sacks of rice, flour, and sugar, countless preserves from around the world, various alcohols…

 

     All Itchy needed was chocolate, honey, and a little alcohol. He brought these things to the prep area, picking a square tin from the cabinet full of dishes.

 

     Every spring, he used to make alcoholic candy with Mr. Sarfeesha, which would then be sold to tavern patrons as a special seasonal item.

 

     And even after all these years, the process came naturally when he boiled the honey to a perfect temperature, watching the bubbles with a trained eye. Once the consistency was to his liking, he added just the right amount of Kelloru’s Famous Palm Wine. He poured dabs of the thick mixture onto the pan, which spread into little discs.

 

     In ten minutes, the discs solidified. Itchy broke squares from a Seelie chocolate bar and placed them on the discs, then poured the rest of the sticky, gooey mixture on top.

 

     Now a hundred candies were cooling on two pans, colored rich amber and infused with Matuzan alcohol, holding a piece of the world’s sweetest chocolate in the middle. Itchy looked upon them with sheer delight, rubbing his hands together in excitement.

 

     He’d truly made something great, he thought. And while he had to pilfer a few ingredients to do so, he figured he would simply pay the mercenaries back once he got his business going. No harm done. He was well on his way to being the competent, civilized man his family deserved.

 

     In less than an hour, the candies were cool and solid. Itchy cut up bits of rice paper and wrapped them individually before scooping them into his satchel. Now all he had to do was make it home.

 

     His plan was thwarted the moment he opened the door.

 

     For there was Evan Atlas, standing at the threshold. He glowered down at Itchy, muscled arms crossed over his broad chest. He was dressed down in soft gray pajamas and boots, though Itchy didn’t find him any less intimidating than if he were gleaming in steel armor with a sword at his hip.

 

     The satyr gulped, took a couple steps back. “Hey, Fa—er, Atlas! Uh, what’re you doin’ up this late?” he stammered.

The shadow on Evan’s eyes darkened when he replied, “I should ask you the same. You know Lukas never sleeps, don’t you? He woke me up, said he saw you creeping towards the compound earlier.”

 

     He tipped his head towards the door. “I saw the lock on the ground and knew exactly where to find you. Breaking and entering is a crime, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

 

     Slapping a palm over his face, Itchy sighed and muttered, “Aw, shit…”

“So, do you care to explain yourself? Or shall we skip the formalities and head straight to jail?”

“Atlas, listen,” Itchy began wearily, “I’m trying to get my crap together. I really, really am! Believe it or not, I don’t _wanna_ be shady, I don’t _wanna_ break the law, and I don’t _wanna_ be a loser!”

 

     He paused for one long, hesitant moment. Finally he continued, “I’ll give you the honest truth, alright? I told Ginger weeks ago that I was gonna quit ‘shinin’ and do something better. Y’know, _legal_. I told her everything was in the works and I was gonna surprise her with this brand new business, but…”

 

     He sighed, scrubbing at his face, “I lied. I didn’t have the gold, the materials…I didn’t even have an idea in my head! I just didn’t want her to worry, y’know? Then today, some little punk stole candy from my kid and it reminded me of somethin’.”

 

     Reaching into his satchel, Itchy offered a candy to Evan. “I used to make candy, way back in the day! I thought, ‘why am I buyin’ this crap when I could be sellin’ it?’ But I still didn’t have the stuff to do it, so I thought…Well, I thought I’d just borrow some stuff from you guys.”

 

     Evan quirked an eyebrow, the scowl still plastered on his face. “ _Borrow_ ,” he repeated doubtfully. “And never once did it occur to you to simply _ask_ us?”

“It did,” Itchy told him, “but I knew you’d say ‘no’.”

 

     “And you’d be right,” Evan said, then he finally swiped the candy from Itchy. After unwrapping it, he popped it in his mouth and slapped the wrapper back in the satyr’s palm. He chewed it in silence. Itchy quivered there before him, helplessly awaiting his fate.

 

     Evan spoke over a full mouth, asked, “Palm wine?”

“Yeah. The good stuff, from Kelloru,” said Itchy. Satisfied, the captain nodded.

At last, he swallowed the piece and said, “It’s good. _Very_ good, in fact. Are you sure you made this?”

 

     “Aw, quit bustin’ my balls,” the satyr groaned, extending his wrists. “Just cuff me ‘n get it over with. Sooner I serve my time, sooner I can get back to my family.” He paused, grumbled, “If they even _want_ me back after this…God, I’m a walkin’ disaster, aren’t I? Real good-for-nothin’ piece of garbage, that’s me…”

 

     To his surprise, Evan pushed his arms back to his sides. The captain said, “Forget it. I just realized, I left my cuffs at home and I can’t be bothered to go get them.”

 

     Itchy flinched, cringing in pain as Evan dragged him out of the dining hall by his ear. “So, how about this: I take you home to your wife and you tell her everything you just told me. Admit your fault, admit your dishonesty, grovel at her feet, and pray that she takes you back.”

 

     He yanked Itchy’s ear a little harder when he added, “Because if she doesn’t, I’ll drag you right back here by your wretched, lying tongue and toss you in the dungeon where you really belong. Deal?”

Through gritted teeth the satyr croaked, “Okay. Sounds good.”

 

     Evan kept a hold on his ear as they moved down the dark trail. He grabbed a lantern off his porch when they passed his stone house, lighting the way outside the gates.

 

     “Have any more candy, by chance?” asked the captain. Without a word, Itchy reached in his satchel and handed him another.

“Thank you, sir,” Evan spoke over it, once again shoving the wrapper back in the satyr’s hand.

 

     “This is rice paper, y’know,” Itchy mentioned. “You can eat it. It ain’t bad.” He shoved it in his mouth to demonstrate, and almost instantly it melted on his tongue.

 

     Evan chose to ignore him and said, “Mmm…you have a real talent here, Mr. Itchy. It’s a shame you’re such a miscreant. But after all this trouble and all these years, your lovely lady still finds reason to defend you every time you incriminate yourself. What is it that she sees in you, exactly?”

 

     “Pff, beats me,” Itchy grumbled. After a moment of thought, he added, “She always said I act like an ass, but that I got a good heart. I still don’t know what that means. Do you?”

 

     Evan’s smirk straightened. He seemed contemplative when he said, “Maybe. Well, I think I do, actually. I’ve said that to someone before.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“It’s really none of your business.” Evan jerked the satyr’s ear a little. “We’ll just see what Ms. Ginger has to say about you after tonight.”

 

*

 

     Ginger awoke with a start. She heard three raps at the door, followed by a muffled voice. It called, “Ginj? It’s Itchy! Ginger! Open the door!”

“Coming, coming!” the satyress called back groggily, stumbling to her feet. Cinnamon was deaf to all the noise, but Tomato had awoken to peer over the loft.

 

     Ginger opened the door. She saw Itchy as she expected, then jumped when she saw the mountainous man standing behind him. Quickly she combed her fingers through her hair as she greeted, “Oh, Captain! What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

 

     Evan nodded towards Itchy, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m afraid your husband was caught burglarizing our compound tonight. I’ll go ahead and let him explain himself. Mr. Itchy?”

 

     Ginger looked at them both, face burdened with worry. She stepped forward onto the porch and closed the door behind her.

 

     Itchy scrubbed at his forehead, sighed, “Yeah. I made another bad decision. Long story short, Ginj, I…I lied. These last few weeks, I wasn’t workin’ on the business at all, ‘cause I didn’t even have one in the first place.”

 

     The satyress’ eyes rounded. “What? You lied to me?” she exclaimed.

“I didn’t want you to worry!” he explained. “We had so much goin’ on with the baby, and you just kept pushin’ me ‘n pushin’ me about it! I couldn’t take it—it made me wanna drink!”

 

     “Itchy,” she growled, fists balled at her sides, “you can’t just keep lying to me! You said you’d change!”

“I know!”

“So that was a lie too, was it?”

“No! I mean—”

Ginger gestured towards the captain, “Then what’s all this about stealing from them? You said you left all that nonsense behind!”

 

     “Okay, so here’s what happened,” Itchy began. “On my way home yesterday, I finally came up with an idea for a business. I know it sounds completely off the wall, but…I’m gonna make candy.”

“Candy?” Ginger blurted, quirking an orange eyebrow.

 

     Itchy pulled a candy from his satchel and handed it to her. “Just try one,” he said. The satyress’ gaze flicked between his hand and his eyes for a moment. Then reluctantly she unwrapped it and gave him the wrapper. After a sniff and a visual inspection, she placed it in her mouth.

 

     Itchy and Evan waited in silence as she chewed through it. Over a full mouth she asked, “Is there alcohol in this?”

“Yeah,” admitted Itchy, “but it ain’t ‘shine! It’s that palm stuff from the south. The fancy kind. The, uh, _legal_ kind.”

“Well…” Ginger began, then swallowed and went on, “It _is_ delicious. But why this? Why candy, of all things?”

 

     Itchy almost smiled as he explained, “‘Cause I know how, mostly. Only three people in the world know how to make candy like this. Well, two now, if old Adel’s still kickin’…”

 

     He shook his head. “That old tavernkeeper who adopted me, he used to make this stuff in spring when honey was cheapest. He’d sell it to travelers ‘n soldiers, and they’d smuggle it to the dry territories where alcohol was banned. Nobody expects candy, see.”

 

     Ginger turned to Evan. “Is that even legal?” she asked.

The captain shrugged. “On the tavernkeeper’s part? Arguably. On the smuggler’s part? Definitely not,” he said.

“And if Itchy were to make a living from this,” Ginger began, “would you have reason to jail him?”

 

     “Not unless he was selling it in prohibited territories,” answered Evan. “But there is still the matter of the crimes he _has_ committed. Made off with a good bit of our community pantry, didn’t you, sir?”

 

     Itchy closed his eyes, shoulders hunched. “Yes,” he mumbled.

Turning back to Ginger, Evan said, “What happens next is up to you, miss. Do you wish to take this lying, thieving, hooligan back into your home? Or would you prefer if he sat in time-out for six months to think about what he’s done?”

 

     A long silence passed, the tension like a lute string pulled to its limit. Itchy’s knees knocked. He jumped when an owl hooted in the distance. He dared to look up and meet Ginger’s angry, disapproving scowl that sliced through him like a knife.

 

     “I can not _believe_ you lied to me again,” she said quietly. “That you went back to thievery after all that’s happened. After you promised— _promised_ me and your newborn child that you’d change…”

 

     She shook her head, locks of hair falling before her face. “I just don’t know, Itchy. Maybe you need to face the consequences of your actions for once.”

 

     Itchy felt his heart drop into his stomach. The force brought him to his knees. “Ginger, no! Please!” he pleaded, taking her by the hand. “You can’t give me this beautiful home, two beautiful kids, and this beautiful life, just to rip it all away from me like this! That’s _cruel_ , lassie! Don’t do this to me!”

 

     He swept a hand towards Evan and went on, “What else am I gonna do in jail but rot? How am I gonna see my daughter’s first steps? How am I gonna take care of my family from a dungeon? I can’t! I can’t change unless you _let_ me, Ginger! Please!”

 

     Dropping her face in her hands, Ginger shook her head and let out a long groan. The hard lines on Evan’s brow faded as he watched them. His annoyance visibly turned to pity as Ginger dropped to her knees, throwing her arms around her wayward lover.

 

     She looked at Evan and said to him, “You don’t have to tell me I’m a fool, Captain. I already know it. But I would like you to know that Itchy really _has_ been trying his best these last few months. I even told him so—I told him I was proud of him for staying sober and behaving so well. Please understand, he has a good heart under all the…well, jackass behavior.”

 

     Then she grabbed the sides of Itchy’s beard, gave his head a little shake when she told him, “I’ll take you back, you stupid man, but I will not forgive you just yet! You know the drill by now, mister. You have to _prove_ that you’re capable of changing. If not into a perfect man, then at least a better one than before. Can you do that?”

 

     “I can,” Itchy told her, tone quick and eager. “I will. I promise. I’ll keep gettin’ better and better ‘till I _am_ the perfect man. You ‘n the kids deserve nothin’ less.”

 

     Ginger caressed his face with a weary sigh. She pulled him up with her as she rose to her feet. “Jail won’t help him,” she told Evan. “But I think a little time and understanding will. Thank you for bringing him here, Captain. I think you have a good heart too.”

 

     A soft grin crossed Evan’s face. He replied, “Thank you, miss. I wish the best for you and your family. I’ll go ahead and take my leave now. But first,” he stepped forward, extending a palm towards Itchy, “my delivery fee.”

 

     “Right…” Itchy grumbled, grabbing a fistful of candies and slapping them in the captain’s palm. Evan tucked them into his pocket and began heading back down the trail.

“Have a good night, folks,” he told them. The satyrs saw him off with a wave, then disappeared into the house.

 

     They saw Tomato’s wide eyes staring from the darkness of the loft. “What happened?” he asked. “Are we in trouble?”

Ginger and Itchy looked at one another, exchanging uncertain expressions. Together without a word, they decided to simply let everything go.

 

     Ginger replied, “No, darling, everything is fine. Now go back to sleep. We have to get up early for planting tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah…” the boy muttered, crawling miserably back into his bed.

 

     With equal exhaustion, Ginger and Itchy collapsed side-by-side in their own bed. Ginger rolled towards him and whispered, “If you needed money for your business, why didn’t you just ask me? You know I keep a savings. Why is your first instinct to steal like some kind of lowlife?”

 

     “Because I...” Itchy began, cutting himself off with a frustrated sigh. “Because I was tired of bein’ a leech, Ginj. I wanted to do it all myself and show you I wasn’t a loser.”

 

     “And that worked out just swell for you, didn’t it?” she jabbed.

“Aww, come on…” the satyr dragged a hand down his tired face. But when he withdrew it, he saw Ginger’s lips curled into the tiniest smile.

 

     “I know you’re rough around the edges,” she said. “I knew that when I decided to take you back the very first time you let me down.”

“I won’t let you down anymore,” he told her.

She shook her head. “Don’t lie to me. Yes, you most certainly will. But as long as you keep _trying_ , I will always love you. Just never stop trying, okay?”

 

     Itchy pulled her close to him, wrapped himself around her like a blanket. “You got the patience of a priestess,” he said. “I love you too, Ginger. With all my crusty old heart.”

 

*

 

     _SUMMER, 6006_

 

     “Pretend my knight has two swords,” said Tomato, bashing his wooden knight against a stuffed dragon, “and he cuts the siege dragon’s neck like scissors! _Swoosh_!”

 

     Frederick picked up the dragon and told him, “It doesn’t work, ‘cause the dragon’s scales are like stone!”

“Okay, pretend they’re magic swords. They can cut through stone!” Tomato bashed the stuffed toy again.

“Humans aren’t that strong! The dragon pukes fire on him and he dies,” said Frederick, then he slapped the knight out of Tomato’s hand.

 

     The two played in the sitting room of Tomato’s house. Ginger scrubbed blankets in a washbasin nearby while Itchy tended a boiling pot at the fireplace.

 

     “Um, the knight was wearing fireproof armor,” insisted Tomato, picking up the toy again.

Frederick scowled. “Well, you didn’t say that before, so it doesn’t count! He’s dead.”

“No he’s not!”

“Yes he is!”

 

     “Why are you so bossy?” Tomato huffed, stamping his cloven hoof. “You don’t get to make all the rules!”

“’Cause I’m the oldest!”

“Not even by a year!”

“That’s still older!”

 

     Tomato whined, “You can’t win knights and dragons every time, Freddie! It’s not fair!”

The young centaur quirked an eyebrow. “Why? Are you gonna cry about it? Crybaby, crybaby!” he chanted.

Tears welled in Tomato’s eyes and he quickly wiped them on his arm. “You’re a big, fat meanie, Freddie!”

 

     Frederick’s grin suddenly flipped. “I am not!” he growled, then reared up on his hind equine legs. He stamped his front hooves down and shoved Tomato, sending the little satyr rolling backwards across the floor.

 

     “Boys! My goodness, that’s enough!” Ginger gasped, rushing to her son’s side. “Frederick, that wasn’t nice at all! Why did you hit him?”

“He called me ‘fat’!” Frederick exclaimed, thrusting a finger towards his weeping friend.

 

     Tomato pouted against his mother’s shoulder. Ginger told him, “Name-calling isn’t okay, Tomato. How do you think that made Freddie feel?”

“I don’t care,” sniffled Tomato, “’cause he called me a ‘crybaby’ first!”

 

     His mother dried his tears with her thumbs, then placed a hand on each of the boys’ shoulders. “Sometimes words make us very angry,” she told them. “Words can hurt, just like a fist. That’s why we should never use our words _or_ our bodies to hurt others.”

 

     She turned to Tomato and said, “But words can also make people happy, just like a hug. Tomato, I want you to apologize to Freddie and tell him one thing you like about him.”

 

     The young satyr shot her a questioning look. He hesitated, then turned to Frederick and mumbled, “Sorry for calling you ‘fat’. Um, I like…I like how you’re really brave, like when you jumped off that big rock at the river.”

 

     “Good.” Ginger smiled, then turned to Frederick. “Freddie, I want you to also apologize to Tomato and tell him one thing you like about him.”

“I don’t wanna,” the centaur pouted, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

 

     His eyes rounded when Ginger firmly cupped the sides of his chubby face. She furrowed her brow slightly, staring straight in his eyes as she told him sternly, “Frederick of Kaldenfel, you are doing yourself no favors by being so willful. Don’t you want to be strong and honorable like Ms. Elska?”

 

     Frederick’s brows shot up. “Yes,” he said quickly.

Ginger continued, “Well, she would be very disappointed if she saw you behaving this way. But you would make her proud if you looked your ally in the eye and paid him the apology you owe him like a true, honorable warrior.”

 

     Gaze flicking back to Tomato, Frederick nodded and decided, “Okay. I guess so. Um…I’m sorry for pushing you, Tomato. And um, I like how you’re really smart and you make up cool games and stuff. Nobody else really wants to play with me, so…” He shrugged. “I like that you play with me, even though I’m mean sometimes.”

 

     He glanced up at Ginger, eyes glistening and apologetic. “I don’t try to be mean, I swear,” he said. “It just happens. I-I don’t know why!”

“It’s okay, dear.” Ginger smiled and kissed his forehead. “That was a lovely apology. Now, can you two forgive eachother and play nice from now on?”

 

     The boys turned to one another. They shared a nod and a simultaneous agreement.

“Yes.”

“Yeah.”

 

     “Hey now,” began Itchy, approaching them with a tray of red candies, “what’s all this gooey foo-foo crap? I thought I was gonna see a good, old fashioned brawl!”

 

     “Stop it,” Ginger hissed, nudging him with her elbow. “They’re learning to be fine, upstanding men. I’m very proud of you two.” She rustled the children’s hair and they smiled bashfully, cheeks as red as the candies.

 

     Itchy held the tray out to them and said, “How ‘bout a reward then? You kids can test these for me. Let me know if you break out into hives or turn inside-out or somethin’.”

 

     Tomato excitedly grabbed a candy, Frederick snatching two in each hand, and down the hatch they went.

“Those better not be alcoholic,” Ginger warned the satyr.

“Nah,” said Itchy. “Not these ones. Just molasses and cinnamon, and a beetle in the middle. I call ‘em ‘beetle bites’.”

 

     “That is so cute,” Ginger chuckled, taking one for herself. “Good luck trying to sell commoners on these though. They don’t much like bugs.”

 

     Itchy took the tray back to the counter and began wrapping the candies in rice paper squares, twisting the ends into stems. “Don’t worry, I got a little somethin’ for everyone. Can’t afford imported chocolate or fancy wine just yet, but when I can, I’ll mark this stuff up like crazy and start hockin’ it in Woodborne. The sailors over there’ll pay good money for it.”

 

     He glanced back at the kids and asked, “How’s it taste, guys? Feel sick? Anything burning?”

“No,” replied Tomato, “it’s really good! The beetle is so crunchy.”

“Gimme another one!” demanded Frederick.

Ginger touched the centaur’s shoulder and told him, “Freddie, remember to use your manners. You catch more flies with honey than salt.”

 

     “Um,” Frederick cleared his throat and tried again, “Mr. Itchy, can I please have another one?”

Itchy eyeballed him doubtfully for a moment. Then he grinned and tossed one in the air. “Only if you can catch it!” he exclaimed. Frederick reared up and scrambled to catch the candy. It fumbled between his hands for a moment, then settled in the crook of his elbow.

 

     “Got it!” he laughed and tossed it into his mouth, paper and all.

“Alright, that’s enough for today, boys,” Ginger began. “All this sugar isn’t good for you. And Frederick?”

“Huh?”

“Please don’t tell your father I let you have these.”

 

     The centaur boy grinned, red molasses all caught in his teeth. “I won’t,” he said.

 

*

 

     Itchy only had the most basic ingredients to work with now. But his last several batches sold much more quickly than his moonshine, for he no longer had to advertise in secrecy. Children traded their allowances for his simpler recipes, while adults paid a little more for the novelty of alcoholic candy.

 

     But Itchy learned long ago that in dry territories, his craft was much more than a novelty. Evangeline and Folkvar soldiers weren’t permitted to drink on duty, so they would show up to Mr. Sarfeesha’s tavern in droves during the spring. Not to stock up on alcohol, which their superiors would toss out, but for loads of seemingly innocuous candy.

 

     There was a decent fortune to be made here, Itchy knew, as long as he exercised the same discipline as Mr. Sarfeesha. He kept the old man on his mind as he loaded a knapsack with candy and headed for the village plaza.

 

     Cinnamon toddled along beside him with twine criss-crossed over her chest, clad in a cloth diaper and a white bow in her hair. Itchy held the other end of the short tether, guiding her forward.

 

     Dr. Che was right, he marveled. Cinnamon _was_ fast. She’d learned to walk quickly and she was strong too, as she pulled forward like an eager hound. But the doctor hadn’t been right about her eyes—at least not yet. They were still crooked as ever, still blind to all but what stood a foot or less in front of her.

 

     That was fine, Itchy decided. He would be her eyes for the rest of his life if he had to, and then guide her from the afterlife if the stars would allow. But for today, he simply guided her to Gwyneth’s market in the heart of the village.

 

     He saw Gwyneth chatting with Brogan in the distance. He waved and called, “Hey, Gwynny! You run out of candy yet?”

 

     The elfenne crossed her thin arms. “Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” she said. “And yes, I did. A troop of Folkvar soldiers passed through and wiped me out yesterday. Now are you gonna sell me more, or did you just come here to annoy me?”

 

     “A little of both,” Itchy told her, setting his knapsack on the counter. He pulled out several burlap sacks, each one filled with a different candy flavor. They discussed their deal while Cinnamon wandered around the side of the stall. She reached the end of her lead and fell backwards, rolling over on her stomach.

 

     As she did, a glint of light caught her crooked eye. Tucked under the narrow gap of the stall was a shiny platinum coin. Surely it was dropped and forgotten long ago, perhaps years ago.

 

     Today, it was recovered by Cinnamon as she reached under the dusty stall and picked it up. No one paid her a glance as she followed her lead back to Itchy, bumping into his furry legs. She silently chewed the coin while she waited for him to get moving again.

 

     Gwyneth bought half of Itchy’s stock, for despite how much she loathed him, his candy was far cheaper than what she used to import. It wasn’t like Gwyneth to prioritize feelings over profits. Itchy knew the way to her heart was through her pockets, and as long as he helped her profit, she agreed to make peace with him.

 

     Brogan, however, didn’t feel quite the same. Just as Itchy began to leave, the blond-headed satyr spat, “Come around here without a babe or a coin in yer hand, and I’ll grind ya to paste! Hear me, scalawag?”

“Hard not to, with pipes like yours,” Itchy called back to him, making a show of digging at his ear.

 

     He and Cinnamon moved down the southern road. Villagers smiled and waved at Cinnamon as they passed. When Itchy waved back, they shot him a dirty look. So he was on the straight and narrow, but he still hadn’t won their hearts after a decade of deviancy…

 

     That was what it was, he figured. The only approval he needed was from the people he loved.

 

     Suddenly, he felt something tug at his tail. “Wa-Wa! Wa-Wa!” Cinnamon babbled. He stopped and turned, saw her holding up an offering. He squinted, tilted his head.

 

     Then he gasped and quickly plucked it from her hand, biting its edge in disbelief. Solid platinum coin, authentic. Equal in value to 100GP.

 

     A wide, toothy smile spread across Itchy’s face. He tucked the coin in his satchel and lifted Cinnamon high in the air, laughing maniacally and spinning her around in circles. The baby shrieked with delight.

 

     “Papa ain’t askin’ _no_ questions,” he told her ear, tapping his fingertip against her nose. Cinnamon laughed over her slobbery fists. He carried her the rest of the way down the trail, until they finally arrived at the mercenary compound.

 

     The Freelance Good Guys were just sitting down for dinner. Itchy liked to strike when they were at their hungriest and most inebriated. Before he stepped inside the dining hall, he told his daughter, “Just be quiet and look cute, Cinnamon. If we sell out, Papa’s gonna buy you a horsie.”

 

     He stepped into the building and announced, “Get your sugar fix here! Two candies for one gold piece! Plain and alcoholic, I got it all!”

 

     Evan waved him over to the head of the table. “What flavors do you have today?” he asked. Itchy set a sample of each on the table top, lining up four candies in a row.

He identified them from left to right, “I got stumblers and ball-busters for drunks, and beetle bites and cat eyes for decent folk. What’ll it be, Captain?”

 

     Evan examined the “cat eyes”, cloudy yellow orbs with something black in the center. “Er, please tell me these don’t contain real cat’s eyes…” he said.

 

     Itchy laughed, gestured to his beer-belly. “Is this the body of a guy who chases cats for a livin’? It’s just honey with a little salt and a piece of licorice in the middle.”

“Very well,” said Evan, sliding four coins across the table. “I’ll try one of those and some stumblers, please.”

 

     “Hey, come bust my balls over here!” exclaimed Glenvar, tossing two coins across the table. Itchy caught them and threw four ball-busters back.

“I want two of the gross beetle ones,” said Alaine.

“May I try a cat eye, Mr. Itchy? I rather like licorice,” queried Jeimos.

 

     In just minutes, every candy in Itchy’s pack was gone. “That does it for me, guys,” he told them. “I’ll be back next week.”

As he turned to leave, Lukas called, “Hey! Bring some of those grasshopper ones you had last time. I’ll buy the whole batch.”

 

     Itchy’s brows arched. “You got it!” he said, and then he was out the door.

He pulled his daughter into his arms once more. In her ear he said, “Good job, kiddo! You had their hearts right in your little hands.”

 

     He patted his satchel, jingling with coins. “Now, Papa promised you a horsie, didn’t he? And he don’t break his promises no more.”

 

     That said, he and Cinnamon travelled all the way back to Gwyneth’s market. She mentioned a shipping error a few weeks ago and somehow ended up with a little wooden rocking horse.

 

     It was simple in structure, painted white with a red and gold saddle, likely Folkvaran in origin. Itchy had been eyeballing it ever since, but Gwyneth was charging a hard 100GP for it and it was simply out of his family’s budget.

 

     That day, Itchy gave her the platinum coin that was probably hers in the first place. He carried the horse home on his shoulder, couldn’t wait for Cinnamon to play with it.

 

     But by the time he got home, she’d fallen asleep in his arms. He placed her in her bassinet and Ginger greeted him with a kiss.

 

     “Oh, you taste like sugar,” she remarked, licking her smiling lips.

Itchy shrugged. “Yeah, I might have, uh… _tested_ some product today.”

“Better than testing moonshine,” she told him, kissing him once more. She wrapped her arms around his neck and added coyly, “Tomato’s out playing with his friends. He won’t be back until sundown...”

 

     She shrieked, giggling as Itchy pulled her down to the floor with him. He grinned his crooked grin and said, “Then we got plenty of time.”

 

**END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Whether you loved it or hated it, please leave a comment and let me know. I'm always trying to improve my writing. :)


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